


The Broken Road

by rahleeyah



Category: The Doctor Blake Mysteries
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-30
Updated: 2018-08-26
Packaged: 2019-04-15 03:47:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 40
Words: 120,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14151258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rahleeyah/pseuds/rahleeyah
Summary: AU: While in captivity in Changi, Lucien Blake meets a man called Christopher Beazley. Christopher's dying request will set Lucien's feet upon the road back to his hometown, and send him straight into the path of the one woman he thought he'd never see again. What Lucien finds when he returns to Ballarat will change the course of his life forever.





	1. Prologue

_2 January 1934_

A man may face many roads, over the course of his lifetime. The smooth, orderly grid of a new world city, fast and bright and designed with efficiency in mind, or the long, winding, ethereal streets of a town that seems older than time itself. He may strike out along a gravel drive or plant his feet in the mud of a cow path, or construct a through-way for himself where there is none, with logs and axe and blood and sweat. The road of his own life, the twists and turns and abrupt dead ends that lead him from his birth to his death may be the hardest road to follow, for there is no way to see what lies ahead, and no way to turn back. A man must follow his road, wherever it may lead, with only his heart for a compass.

On a fine summer night Lucien Blake had brought his car to a stop at the end of a familiar dirt track, on the far outskirts of Ballarat. This was a road he knew well, one he had traversed for less-than-honorable purposes more times than he could count. What he did not know as he lay tangled up in the backseat of his father's car with his arms around the girl who had become the very center of his world was that he had in fact reached a crossroads in the journey of his life, and that the decisions he made this night would change his life, and the lives of the people he loved most, forever.

"I love you," he whispered, panting just a little, with the warmth of Jean's skin beneath his fingertips and the softness of her hair tickling his nose. In response Jean hummed in pleasure, pressing her nose against the crook of his neck, burrowing deeper into his embrace. The heat of the night and the ferocity with which they had attacked one another had left them both sweaty and spent, Jean's knees on either side of his hips, her body draped across his like a blanket. His hands traced patterns over the smooth skin of her back, his fingertips carefully counting the delicate ridges of her spine, feathering from her shoulders down to the rise of her buttocks and back up again. Though she was a bit young, though her handmade clothes had seen better days and there were calluses on her finely-built hands she remained the single loveliest girl he had ever known, clever and kind and endlessly fascinating to him, and these few precious moments they'd carved out for themselves had come to mean everything to him.

"I bet you say that to all the girls," she answered him cheekily, pressing the softness of her lips to the curve of his neck and sending a shiver racing down his spine.

"Only you," he answered truthfully, smiling into the darkness when Jean redoubled her efforts, trailing her kisses along the line of his jaw.

Lucien Blake had never, not once, told another girl that he loved her. Oh, he had been to bed with one or two others, had spun around the dancefloor of many a crowded pub and opened his wallet for more than a few, but he had never found one who made him feel the way that she did. And perhaps that was strange, given that he'd only known her for such a short time, given that they had met under such unusual circumstances, given that their backgrounds were so very different. But the truth remained that Jean Randall was the only girl to ever steal his heart, and he had parted with it gladly for her sake.

He'd returned to Ballarat in July, finally finished with his studies and trying to decide where he wanted to go next. With his university degree and medical training he could now practice anywhere in the empire, but his father had requested that he come home first, that he try to make a go of it in Australia before deciding where to plant his roots. And since the old man had paid for his education and possessed a network of contacts from Melbourne to Adelaide to Sydney, Lucien had - somewhat reluctantly - agreed. None of it had gone to plan, of course; Lucien had spent more of his life outside his father's house than in it, and now that they were forced to share the same space for months on end he had come to the rather disappointing realization that his father was every bit as stern and withdrawn and dreadful as he had always believed him to be. They rowed more often than not, ate their meals in silence and spent their evenings as far away from one another as they could possibly get. Lucien had resolved himself to travel to London as soon as the Christmas festivities drew to an end, to join his friends there and turn his back on the staid, conservative town of his birth. His plans had been delayed, however, by his discovery of the angel who currently rested in his embrace.

They met outside the church one evening in November. Lucien was drunk as a lord and Jean had been practicing with the choir for their Christmas program when he had, quite literally, walked right into her. He had sworn but managed to right the pair of them before they ended up sprawled in the dirt beside the pavement. His hands had caught her hips and they lingered there, suddenly entranced by the fire in her grey eyes and the curve of her cheek, by the grace of her movements as she danced out of his grip, by the cadence of her voice as she berated him for being so foolish. He had stumbled through his apologies and she had stormed off in a huff, but it was too late for Lucien Blake; he was already, quite completely, under her spell.

After that he took every excuse he could to seek her out. The diner where she sat and sipped milkshakes with her friends on Friday evenings, the library she frequented every Saturday morning, even once going so far as to take his father's place on a house call when her mother fell ill and needed tending. With flowers and gentle words and an endless parade of charm he had slowly won her over, and now they spent every moment they could together, ending up like this more often than not. She was warm and responsive and blindingly beautiful, fragile as a bird but with a will strong as steel, and he adored her, with all his heart.

The problem, of course, was that he had no intention of staying in Ballarat. The town was dry and dusty, the people doubly so, and he feared, deep down in his soul, that if he stayed he would end up like his father, bitter and combative and utterly alone. The streets of Europe called to him, promised him a different life, a better life, a dream he wanted almost as much as the girl he held in his arms. Almost. A plan had begun to form in the back of his mind, a plan that would allow him to have everything he wanted, and though he had not spoken of it to anyone - not even Jean - he was devoting more and more time to it.

When he first returned to Ballarat his father had agreed that if after a period of months it seemed that Lucien would be better served living elsewhere they would discuss Thomas paying for his relocation. As Lucien had no funds of his own he knew he was reliant upon his father's good nature to set his feet upon his desired path, and so he had decided to wait until after the holiday before broaching the subject of his departure. The conversation would be all the more delicate for Lucien did not intend to ask only for leave to make his way to London; he wanted, very much, to marry Jean Randall, and take her with him.

And though he had yet to ask her, he rather felt that Jean would be amenable to this request. She complained often and bitterly about the constraints of her family's expectations, about the difficulties of life on the farm, had told him that she loved him and told him of her dreams to travel the world. Though she was only eighteen - nineteen, in three week's time - she knew what she wanted from her life, and Lucien believed that he could give it to her. It wouldn't take much, he'd told himself, to arrange a wedding at Sacred Heart and travel and accommodations for them in London. Hardly more than the cost of sending him off on his own. And once he arrived he could set himself up in one of the local hospitals, could earn more than enough to look after himself and his wife, to take her on the trips she always dreamed of and lavish her with gifts, to present to her everything she had so far been denied in this life. This was what Lucien wanted, more than anything else, and as he lay beneath her he told himself that the time had likely come to go about getting it. He would speak to his father first, if for no other reason than that he would like to present Jean with his mother's ring when he proposed, but just knowing that everything he wanted was within his reach had made him a happy man.

"When do you have to be back?" he asked. Though he was loath to part with her it was easier somehow to take her home, to watch her walking away, when he knew that soon he would never have to spend another moment without her.

Jean sighed and reached for his hand, lifting it up so she could check the time on his watch.

"Ten minutes ago," she grumbled.

Lucien laughed and kissed her temple, smiling at her fondly as they both scrambled around the backseat of the car, trying to pull their clothes back on while knocking elbows and trading gentle kisses. That evening, Lucien was happier than he could recall ever having been before.

* * *

It was late, when Lucien came waltzing into his father's house, a smile on his lips he could not shake. He would talk to his father the very next day, he had decided, and once that was settled he would take his mother's ring and drive out to the Randall farm, would find Jean somewhere in the fields and drop to his knee and offer her everything he had to give. It was an enchanting thought.

An enchanting thought that was banished at once by his father calling out his name from the sitting room. Thomas's voice dripped with displeasure, and as he was not ordinarily awake this late in the evening, the sound of it filled Lucien's heart with dread. He was determined to be courteous to his father, however, knowing how great a boon he intended to ask in the morning, and so he counseled himself to prudence as he made his way across the house.

"Dad," he said as he entered the room.

"And just where have you been?" Thomas grumbled at him from his favorite armchair.

"The Pig and Whistle," Lucien lied at once. His father never set foot inside that pub, and neither did any of his friends, and Lucien hoped that his excuse would be enough to brush aside his father's suspicions.

It was not.

"Like hell you were," Thomas answered, rising ponderously to his feet, all flashing eyes and bristling moustache. "You were with the Randall girl, weren't you?"

Lucien felt as if his heart had dropped straight onto the floor. He kept his mouth resolutely closed, wondering what sort of storm was brewing.

"For God's sake, Lucien, she's a child!" Thomas growled.

"She's nineteen," Lucien protested feebly. It was the wrong thing to say, and he knew it, and Thomas seized upon it at once.

"And you're twenty-four. I expect better from you than this, Lucien. Mucking about with some farmgirl-"

Lucien couldn't bear the distaste in his father's voice as he spat the word  _farmgirl,_  and he opened his mouth at once to protest, but Thomas bowled over him, warming to the subject.

"She's no good for you, Lucien, and I won't have you ruining your reputation or mine by continuing this ridiculous infatuation a moment longer. You will not see her again."

There was something terribly final about Thomas's tone, but Lucien refused to be so easily cowed. He was a man grown, and he knew what he wanted.

"And if I do?" he asked cooly.

"Then you will be entirely cut off," Thomas fired back. "I will not give you another penny, and you will not be welcome in this house. I will write you out of my will, and you will be entirely on your own. Forever."

Lucien spun away, his mind racing, his heart pounding, fear and anger swirling round and round inside him. How had it come to this? How had this night, which had started so beautifully, so full of hope, turned into such horror? He could hardly stand, so great was his distress. He had imagined that his father's old-school sense of class and propriety might present a stumbling block to his plans but he had never considered, even for a moment, that it might come to this. He had twenty pounds in his pocket and the clothes upon his back, and he did not know what would become of him, should he be so utterly abandoned by his father. He could feel his dreams being ripped away from him, and if he weren't so bloody angry he would have wept.

He took a single step away, and his father's voice drew him up short. "If you walk out that door, Lucien," his father said in a terrible voice, "you are no son of mine. And know this. The Randalls are poor, and deeply devout. They will not approve this match. If you try to pursue her they will stop you, and you will have nothing left."

_If you walk out that door, you are no son of mine._

Lucien squared his shoulders, and walked out into the night, the sound of his father's shouts echoing loud in his ears.

* * *

Lucien had precious few friends in Ballarat, and he did not want to bother any of them, to turn up on their doorstep in the dead of night and beg for help. It was a warm evening, and so he made his way to the bus station, and sat himself down upon a bench. The gentle summer breeze helped to calm his racing heart, and the silence all around him gave him the chance to gather his thoughts.

Though he dearly wished it were not so, he knew that his father's estimation of the character of Jean's family was correct. He and Jean had been forced to hide their connection from everyone, fearful of her father's wrath. Jean made a little money on the side working as a seamstress, but as her mother had fallen ill most of what she earned had gone right back into her father's farm. Without help from their families they could hardly start a new life on their own, especially now that his father had disowned him. Lucien knew he would not be able to find work in Ballarat, that he would have to turn his eyes elsewhere. And he would have to do it soon; what little money he had would not be enough to keep him afloat for more than a few days, and he could hardly impose upon the kindness of his friends or Jean's family.

He had enough for a ticket to Melbourne, though. The army was always in search of trained doctors, and it might be the quickest and easiest way for him to begin to earn some much needed funds. Perhaps, he told himself as the night slowly slipped away, as the sun began to rise, this was the best choice for them. A few years in the army was not so great a sacrifice, if in return he was able to build a life for himself, a life in which he could claim Jean for his own. He resolved himself to buy a ticket as soon as the station opened, and to write to Jean as soon as he reached Melbourne. It would not do to linger in Ballarat, and he couldn't risk being caught out at her parents' farm, didn't dare risk bringing their displeasure down upon her. He would explain everything to her then, and he was certain that she would wait for him. Though his heart grieved for the loss of his father's regard, for the knowledge that he could not yet give Jean the life he'd dreamed of, he resolved himself to this, to waiting, to hoping. It was all that he could do, and so would have to be enough.

* * *

It was three weeks before his letter reached his beloved. It was a letter she would never see, for her father intercepted it, and seeing that it had been sent by that rake Lucien Blake, he tossed it into the fire, and never spoke of it to anyone.


	2. Chapter One

_1 December 1942_

"We got another one, doc!"

The door to the makeshift infirmary swung open as yet another young man was carried through, bloody and sagging hopelessly in the arms of his comrades. Lucien fought the urge to sigh; earlier that day a train of Allied soldiers had marched through the gates of Selarang Barracks, their steps hounded by their Japanese captors, and over the last twelve hours more than a few of them had made their way here, in desperate need of care. The infirmary - such as it was - had been the officers' mess prior to the invasion, but now all the tables had been stacked at the far end, and a series of pallets had been laid down upon the floor. Though Lucien was not the only man in the camp with medical training he remained the most experienced, and so he had assumed the position of camp doctor. With more than fifteen thousand prisoners housed on the grounds, he had his hands full.

Triage had become the order of the hour; the men who worked tirelessly by Lucien's side - some of them trained medics, some of them just selfless volunteers - had over the last ten months learned how to with a single look at a patient determine whether or not he could be saved. Illnesses went for the most part untreated, as they lacked medication or even proper quarters to house the infected. The gutshot and the starving were given a place to sleep and a priest, if they wished - there were three on hand. Amputations could be performed, now that some of the more inventive prisoners had found a way to turn rotting food into bootleg liquor, the closest thing they had to anesthetic, but even then only the most hopeful cases were taken. Sometimes the dying men understood, and accepted their fate with good grace, and sometimes they howled for their mothers, and Lucien could not say which was worse.

It was strange, how quickly this horror had become reality, how quickly Lucien had adjusted to his new status. After the failed escape attempt in August - and the resultant wave of dysentery, and the executions - thoughts of escaping had faded from his mind. These men needed help, and Lucien knew that they were best served by his continued presence. Even if he somehow managed to escape Selarang, he had no notion of where to go for aid, while the city was crawling with Japanese soldiers and the shoreline was patrolled by their ships. If they didn't kill him at the gates, they'd just drag him back here to face the firing squad, and then who would care for the sick and the wounded among them? Lucien had stopped praying the day Singapore fell, the day he watched his brothers in arms butchered with their hands up in surrender, the day he had been dragged to this place that had once been home to a host of British soldiers, and had now become their own private hell. If there was a God, he wasn't listening to Lucien Blake.

"What have we got?" Lucien asked, wiping his hands on the dirty shirt he wore tied around his waist to serve as an apron. He was splattered with blood and worse, dead on his feet after a long and trying day without enough food to sustain him, and he hoped that this would be his last patient. Night had fallen, and with a strict curfew in effect he knew he would have to remain where he was, but there was an empty pallet in the far corner of the room where he longed to stretch out and rest his weary bones.

"Broken leg," Paul answered as their patient was laid out in front of him on a table that had only recently held a man who'd lost two fingers to gangrene and Lucien's sharpest knife.

Paul was a bright young man, a Scottish medic from the 2nd battalion, who had been housed here at Selarang before the invasion. Throughout the long day he had served by the door, accepting or rejecting patients as needed, allocating beds and and blankets and what precious foodstuffs they could spare. The lad before them was groaning, his head thrashing against the table while his mates who had carried him here looked on apprehensively.

"His name is Chris, sir," one of them piped up. "Chris Beazley. He fell, out there on the road."

Lucien grunted, carefully peeling away the tattered remnants of young Chris's trouser leg, the better to survey the damage. By now Lucien knew what the lad meant, when he said  _on the road._ These soldiers had been captured far to the north and then marched for miles and miles on end, sometimes overnight, with whips to encourage them and no food to speak of, drinking rainwater and worse just to keep themselves alive. Though thousands of them came flooding through the gates, they left a trail of grief behind them, out on the road.

"It's a wonder he was able to keep walking," Lucien mused, half to himself, as he stared at the wreckage of the young man's leg. This wound was old, three or four days at least, and already destroyed by infection. Ideally Lucien would have amputated there and then, but with no antibiotics and nothing but a cigarette lighter to cauterize the wound he knew to even attempt such a thing would be folly, would spell an unkind end for the Sergeant on the table.

"We took turns carrying him, sir," the young man told him sadly.

Not for the first time, Lucien found himself amazed by the capacity of these men to care for one another, the depth of compassion they showed to their brothers while facing unending torment and deprivation. Though they were starving and exhausted themselves these dirt-splattered boys before him had taken it upon themselves to do whatever they could for their fallen comrade, only to bring him here, to a place where it was now Lucien's job to tell them that he could not be saved. A bullet would have made a kinder end for young Chris Beazley, but Lucien would not dare tell his friends such a thing, not now, not after all they had endured.

"Paul," he said carefully, "why don't you help these lads find a place to sleep, and I'll look after Sergeant Beazley here."

They exchanged a single glance, and in the depths of Paul's dark eyes Lucien saw the same hopelessness that filled his own heart. There was nothing more that they could do for Chris Beazley, and Paul knew it. To his credit he did not show his distress to anyone else, simply squared his shoulders and led the others away, leaving Lucien alone with Chris Beazley.

"Chris," Lucien said, leaning down close to his agonized patient. "Can you hear me?"

"You the doc?" Sergeant Beazley asked on a gasp.

"I am. My name is Lucien Blake. Tell me, do you think you could drink something?"

"You got water, doc?" Blue eyes flashed at him out of a sunken face, desperate and hopeful.

"I do," Lucien answered. Carefully he lifted his patient's head with one hand, while with the other he raised a small canteen of water to his lips. It was a messy business, but Sergeant Beazley seemed grateful enough for what little bit he managed to swallow. Though he was clearly still in pain the water seemed to help him, a little, and Lucien counted himself grateful for small mercies. There was a dirty towel stowed beneath the table, and Lucien gathered it now, balled it up and slipped it under Chris's head to serve as a pillow.

"You can't help me, can you, doc?" Chris asked through gritted teeth.

Lucien's shoulders sagged at the question. It was always easier when the patients were comatose, too far gone to learn of their own fate. This, telling a man that he was dying and there was nothing Lucien could do to stop it, remained the single hardest trial he had ever faced.

"I'm afraid not," Lucien told him sadly. "I don't have the proper equipment, and I don't have any antibiotics. That infection has set in, and there's no way to stop it."

For a long while Sergeant Beazley was silent, his eyes closed against the pain. There was a stool close to hand and so Lucien dragged it over, finally giving his aching feet a rest as he took a seat near his patient's head. Everyone reacted differently, to news of their own imminent demise, and it would seem that Chris Beazley was one of the quiet ones, one of the ones who kept their grief to themselves, no matter how great.

"You said your name's Blake?" Chris asked eventually. The sound of his voice startled Lucien out of his own exhaustion, and he returned his attentions to the young man at once. Lucien could not save him, but he could do this much, could sit with him and listen to what he had to say. "There's a doctor back home named Blake."

"Oh?" Lucien asked. "Where are you from?"

The lads always loved talking of home, he'd found. Home, and their girls, those were the two topics of conversation that seemed to give them hope, to keep them going though the world around them was grim and full of terror. Chris Beazley had a familiar accent, as Australian as Lucien himself, and Lucien hoped that a friendly voice would help to ease him as he slipped away.

"Ballarat," Chris said.

"I'll be damned," Lucien muttered. What were the chances of that? He asked himself. Thousands of miles from home, lost and lonely, surrounded by thousands and thousands of strangers, they had stumbled across one another, two Ballarat boys united here at the end of all things. The world was a big and scary place, but sometimes it seemed as small as a village.

"What was that, doc?"

"I said, I was born in Ballarat," Lucien said quickly. "That Blake, that's Thomas Blake? He's my father."

"I'll be damned," Chris said. Lucien smiled.

"I gotta tell you, doc," Chris continued, his eyes still closed, as if blocking out the dim light of the infirmary could in some way ease his suffering. "I never much cared for your old man."

Lucien chuckled a bit at that; he couldn't help it. Strange, how despite the sorrow of the moment they could speak to one another so easily, as if they were friends, as if they'd known each other for years. Strange, how their conversation made him feel more human than he had done in weeks.

"You're in good company," Lucien told him.

Just then a grimace crossed Sergeant Beazley's face, his whole body tensing for a moment as a wave of pain washed over him. Keep him talking, that was the trick, Lucien knew. Keep him talking until the effort of conversation and the pain grew so great that he would fade into dreams, and, if he were lucky, never return to the nightmare his life had become.

"Is there anyone waiting for you back home, Chris?" Lucien asked him. He could have asked if Chris had attended Ballarat West, if he missed Lake Wendouree, if he'd ever enjoyed a pint at the Pig and Whistle, but he'd spotted a gold band on Sergeant Beazley's left hand, and he thought the lad might rather talk about his wife. Christopher was in truth perhaps only five or so years younger than Lucien, but war had made an old soul of Major Blake, and all these brave volunteer soldiers looked like so many green boys to his eyes.

A beatific smile split Chris Beazley face from ear to ear at the mention of the word  _home_.

"Jeannie," he said. "My wife's name is Jeannie. Well, Jean. I'm the only one calls her Jeannie. And she's the only one calls me Christopher. Her and my mother."

Lucien smiled sadly, his heart touched by how much Chris's countenance changed at the sound of his wife's name. Lucien had loved a girl called Jean once, but that time in his life was lost to shadow, and he could hardly recall the sight of her face. The years had not been kind to him, and so much had changed; he was no longer the reckless boy he had been. He had married a woman he loved, had fathered a child who had become his whole world, had lost them both when he put them on a boat bound for safer shores, never to be heard from again. He had made a promise to himself that when this war was done, when he was free, he would search to the ends of the earth to find them. No doubt Christopher Beazley had made the same promise to himself, but given the state of him, Lucien knew he would never keep it. For a moment he wondered about this Jeannie, safe back home in Ballarat, wondered if she had any inkling what had befallen her husband, the heartbreak she was soon to face. For her sake he hoped not, hope that she could live in peace, just a little while longer.

"We've got three little ones," Chris continued, and Lucien forced himself to focus on the man's words, to ignore his own problems which seemed to pale in significance in the face of what the man in front of him was suffering. "Lily, and Chris Junior, and Jack."

"And how old are they?" Lucien asked, trying hard not to think about how Christopher's death would affect his family; it would be hard enough on his wife to lose her husband, but to have three children to look after as well, three children who relied on her for everything, seemed a burden too great for anyone to have to bear.

"The boys are six and four, and my little girl just had her eighth birthday. I should have been there, shouldn't have been so far from home." Chris's voice had begun to fade, but a note of self-loathing had crept in, there at the end. Though he knew he could protest, could point out that what Christopher Beazley had done in volunteering to leave his home and fight this fight was a selfless act, he likewise knew that such words would be wasted. What did it matter why Chris had decided to fight, if in the end the war was not won, and his family would be abandoned? For a long time Lucien simply looked at him; the lad couldn't have reached his thirtieth birthday yet, seemed much too young to Lucien's eyes to have a child already eight years old.  _Must have gotten started early,_ he thought distantly.

"It'll be all right," he said aloud. Things wouldn't be all right, not for Christopher Beazley or his family, and Lucien knew it, but he said it just the same.

"Listen, doc, can you do me a favor?" For the first time since he'd learned that he was dying Chris's eyes opened and fixed themselves upon Lucien, bright and blue and full of pain.

"I'll do whatever I can," Lucien answered hesitantly. There was only so much he could offer, but he would give what he had. He owed his brothers-in-arms that much.

"There's a letter in my pocket. For Jeannie. When this is over, when you get out of here, can you see that she gets it?"

This much he could do, and so Lucien quietly agreed, carefully reaching into the pocket in question to retrieve the battered envelope. It bore her name,  _Mrs. J. Beazley,_ and an address scrawled across the front, and Lucien dutifully tucked it into his own trouser pocket. Perhaps he would not make it out of here alive, but he made a silent vow in that moment to pass the letter along, to bequeath it to Derek or some other soul, to make sure that Mrs. J. Beazley received her husband's last communication, that Christopher's dying wish would be fulfilled.

"Thanks, doc," Chris said, his voice hardly more than a tired whisper.

"You're very welcome," Lucien answered.


	3. Chapter 3

_12 September 1945_

The gentle rocking of the ship had sent most of Lucien's hollowed-cheeked compatriots off to sleep, but he remained upright, leaning against the wall in the crowded berth. Everything around him reeked of piss and sweat and life, too many bodies crammed into too small a space, and Lucien could feel the walls closing in around him. Finally he heaved himself to his feet and gingerly stepped over those of his fellows who had camped out on the floor, making his way up to the deck and the relative comforts of fresher air.

Lucien was aboard an American ship that had been drafted in to ferry Australian POWs back home. It had taken some time for the powers that be to decide what to do with the more than fifteen thousand prisoners who'd been liberated from Selarang a week earlier, but they'd finally given Lucien his marching orders. He was a career soldier, unlike most of the young men who shared his berth below decks, and when the troops of the 5th Indian Division had come marching through the gates of Selarang he had worried, for a moment, that he might be called upon to see out his service. Weak and exhausted and thoroughly disillusioned with the business of soldiering, there were few things Lucien wanted to do less than resume his duties, but the choice was not up to him, and he knew it. The ship was bound for Melbourne, where he would be evaluated by a doctor - again - and then they'd tell him where he would go.

He knew where he wanted to go; released from hell, the one thought foremost in Lucien's mind was his family. He was hungry for news of China, desperate for some way of contacting them, but his attempts thus far had been futile. The only people who knew anything about refugees and the current state of political affairs in Asia were much too busy to talk to yet another gaunt man about his personal concerns. It had only been a week since the camp had been liberated, he reminded himself; ending a war is a messy business, and his family was only one small piece of a much larger puzzle. Still, though, he was desperate to see them, his wife and his little girl, desperate to wrap them in his arms and learn for himself that they were safe, and well, and whole. Li would be nine years old now; he tried to conjure the image of her in his mind, but all he saw every time he closed his eyes was Li as a toddler, small and perfect, with her delicate cheekbones and fine black hair. He could hardly imagine what she would look like now, so much older, so much bigger than when he'd last seen her.

"It's bloody cold out here, Lucien," a voice rumbled from behind him. Despite himself Lucien jumped, startled out of his reverie by the arrival of his dearest friend.

Derek Alderton limped to his side, reaching out to clasp the railing for balance as the night slipped by, dark sky above and dark water below. They'd been through hell together, Lucien and Derek, had survived beatings and worse, Lucien's stint in solitary and the bayonet wound that had nearly spelled the end of Derek's life. Somehow, though, they were still standing, the pair of them battered and starving and skinny as posts, but mercifully alive.

"Better to be cold than stuck down there," Lucien said, jerking his thumb towards the hatch through which Derek had just emerged.

Derek grunted. "They'll just send us back if they catch us out here."

"All the more reason to enjoy the fresh air while I can."

And so they stood together in silence for a while, shivering but free. They had spoken some of their plans, once they were back on Australian soil; Derek had no family to speak of, and all he wanted was to get himself back into fighting form, to return to work as quickly as possible. Major Alderton understood Lucien's need to see his family, however, and had passed no judgment when Lucien expressed his own doubts.

"They're out there somewhere, Lucien," Derek murmured after a time, his eyes gazing off towards the east. "You'll find them again."

"I wish I shared your confidence," Lucien confessed. "It's a big world, and so much has changed in the last three years."

"All the more reason for you to stay with the Army," Derek said, a slightly wheedling tone to his voice. "The world has changed, Lucien. The old powers are failing and new ones are taking their place. Her Majesty's government will need men with your skills, with language and with people, to go to all sorts of interesting places and do all sorts of interesting things. The Army could be the best way to find your family."

"Or the Army could take my life, and my freedom, and ship me off to some godforsaken corner of the earth. Derek, I'm sick and tired of other people telling me what to do."

Derek grumbled something disagreeable under his breath, but did not press the issue. Perhaps he knew that it was folly to try to convince Lucien Blake of anything, once he had his mind made up.

"Besides, I have this letter to deliver," Lucien said, patting his trouser pocket.

For nearly three years, Lucien had carried Christopher Beazley's letter in his pocket. During that time countless men had died under his watch, countless souls had crossed his path in need of aid or comfort, but he had never forgotten the young Sergeant. For three years Lucien had thought of that young man, of the forces of fate that had brought two Ballarat boys together there in the midst of horror, of the quiet conversations they had shared until the fever took him. Though Lucien knew he could easily slip the letter into the mail once they arrived in Melbourne, he was set on delivering it himself. The envelope was tattered, torn in places - though Lucien had never presumed to open it and read its contents - covered in dirt and worse from the long days of his imprisonment. He did not want to leave this up to fate. He had promised Christopher Beazley that the letter would find its way home, and that was one promise he meant to keep.

Even if it meant going back to Ballarat. It had been so long, since last Lucien was home; he had not spoken to his father since that terrible night when Thomas had disowned him and Lucien had set out to make his own way in the world. It was not just that Thomas had barred Lucien from seeing the girl he fancied that had set the younger Blake's feet to marching out the door, but rather the notion that his father could so easily cast him aside. If Thomas was willing to cut his son out of his life for the crime of seeing a farmgirl, then he was not the sort of father that Lucien wanted to have. As he stood staring out into the night he found himself wondering about his father, wondering how the last eleven years had treated him, wondering if perhaps when his task was through he might walk down the tree-lined street to his father's house, might knock upon the door and see if there was any way to salvage his relationship with the old man. He never would have entertained such a thought before Selarang, but the dark days of his imprisonment had changed him on a fundamental level. He was a different man now, quieter, and grimmer, and perhaps he would find Thomas was a different man was well.

"You're really going to do it, aren't you?" Derek asked, studying his face and no doubt seeing the mark of Lucien's resolve etched into his very skin. Lucien had entrusted the secret of the letter to Derek, in case he were to perish himself, and though Derek thought it a bit mad, that Lucien should be so dedicated to a man he'd known so briefly, to a woman he had never met, he had nonetheless agreed to take on the burden, should Lucien be unable to deliver the letter himself.

"There's a woman waiting for this letter, Derek," Lucien told him. "A woman with three little children, who may not even know for sure that her husband is dead. You heard what they said, it'll take them months to sort out who lived, who died, who's missing, and longer still to get word back to all the families. And even if she does know that he's dead, she still deserves to know how, and why. And she deserves to read this letter."

"You always were too bloody noble for your own good," Derek muttered.

It hardly struck Lucien as noble, his dedication to this letter. In point of fact, knowing that he had a purpose, a task that must be completed, a duty that no one but he could carry out, had helped him in his darkest moments. He had run his fingertips round and round the edge of the letter, thinking of  _Jeannie,_ this girl Christopher Beazley had loved. He'd wondered what she looked like, wondered if her boys resembled their father. And in the still small hours of the night he had thought about his own Jean, the first girl he had ever loved, the girl he'd been willing to throw his life away for, the girl who had shattered his heart when she'd refused to answer his letters. Lucien loved his wife, truly he did, but when he held that letter in his hands the past came back to haunt him. How different things might have been, if he'd chosen a different path. One night had changed the course of his entire life, had set his feet upon the road to shadow. Such thoughts left him crippled with guilt; how could he devote so much time to thinking of a girl whose face he could hardly recall, when he had a wife and child to worry about? His own family was lost, perhaps dead already, and he had no idea of where they were, or how he could go about finding them. Likewise, he did not know where his Jean had ended up, what had become of her when she decided to ignore his pleas that she join him in Melbourne, that she be his wife. Jean Beazley, though, he knew just where she was, and he felt he owed it to her, owed it to the man who'd delivered this task into his hands, to see it through to its conclusion.

"It won't be so bad," Lucien mused. "When we get to Melbourne, I'll let them look me over, and then I'll tell them I want out. And then I'll go to Ballarat. It won't take long to give her the letter. And when that's done...when that's done, Derek, I'm going to find my family. Whatever it takes."

"You're sure that's what you want, Lucien? As a civilian you may not even be allowed into China. How are you going to find your family if you can't search for them yourself?"

"That's what friends are for, right, Derek?" he asked, clapping his hand on Derek's shoulder.

Derek laughed. "I suppose so. Damn you, Lucien. If I can help, I will."

The Americans found them then, berated them for leaving their bunk and sent them shuffling off below decks. Lucien made his way back to his bunk, settling in with his back against the wall, breathing deeply and trying to still the tremors in his hands.  _Will it always be like this?_ He asked himself as he fought to keep the panic at bay. Since that month he'd spent locked in a too-small cell, with hardly enough food or water to survive on, without sunlight or the sound of a human voice to comfort him, he could not bear to be confined. The thought of being trapped on a plane or a train was enough to steal the breath from his lungs, and he reminded himself that he ought to be grateful for the ship, for the days he got to spend in the sunshine and the chance to sneak up to the deck in the darkness, even if those few stolen moments of peace were cut short. He couldn't help but worry that he wasn't fit for polite company; with his shaven head and his sunken cheeks, he knew he looked a fright, and he jumped at every unexpected noise, tensed when strangers stood too close. It would take time, to adjust to life outside the walls of Selarang; he could only hope that he would survive the transition.

Carefully Lucien reached into his pocket, and pulled out the battered letter. He had a plan, now, and that sense of purpose calmed him somewhat.  _To hell with the Army,_ he told himself.  _I've given them more than enough._ He would go to Ballarat, would speak to Mrs. J. Beazley, would brave his father's wrath, and then he would set his sights on China.  _Relax, Major Blake,_ he told himself.  _You're going home._


	4. Chapter 4

_2 January 1946_

It took just over three months for Lucien to finally gain his release from the base in Melbourne. Three months of visiting with doctors and psychologists, eating four meals a day and filling out endless reams of paperwork, sitting with senior officers and explaining in detail, over and over again, what he had endured while he was held captive in Selarang. There had been concerns, at first, that POWs held by the Japanese had turned over secrets to their captors under threat of torture, but Lucien had done no such thing. He had been whipped, and beaten, had been starved and shamed, but he had never been put to the question. It wouldn't have done them any good, even if they had tried to pump him for information; what little knowledge he possessed about troop movements and confrontational strategies had been rendered moot the moment Singapore fell. Likely the Japanese knew that as well as did he, and he had to remind himself to be grateful for small mercies.

The business of resigning his commission took far longer than he had expected; as tensions cooled in Europe they were mounting in the Pacific, and the Army was loath to let anyone go, particularly an officer with Lucien's qualifications. It had taken a report from an exhausted psychologist to convince the powers that be that Lucien would be of no further use to them; though he wasn't privy to the exact details of that report, Lucien was fairly certain it had been far from complimentary. Since arriving in Melbourne he had grown waspish and withdrawn, and seldom spoke to anyone save for Derek. For the first few days he'd suffered from the shakes, and though he told the psychologist it was a reaction to being kept once more in a barracks house that was eerily similar to the confines of Selarang, he knew those tremors had less to do with the tight quarters and more to do with the sudden lack of bootleg liquor that had kept him afloat during his last few months of captivity. Lucien was itching for a drink and the broad expanse of sky above him, and his newfound neuroses coupled with his radical political leanings and generally foul mood had led to his having been stamped  _undesirable._ Though he didn't relish having such a label attached to him, he would accept it gladly in exchange for his freedom.

There were all sorts of soldiers housed there in Melbourne, brought home from all corners of the globe for evaluation and treatment, and a prolific trade in information was quickly established. POWs like Lucien provided much needed intelligence about the whereabouts of missing soldiers, carrying the memories of those lost on the road and in the camps etched in their hearts. In turn the soldiers who had served on the front lines and been sent home with grievous wounds provided answers to questions about lost brothers-in-arms as best they could. The mess hall at meal time was the best place to gather such intelligence, and it was there that Lucien had discovered the fate of his family one night in early December.

After asking around for weeks Lucien had finally been pointed in the direction of a Canadian platoon commander who had been stationed in Hong Kong prior to the invasion of Singapore. At first Lucien had thought it strange, that there should be a Canadian in their midst, but he was promptly informed that the man was only convalescing in Melbourne until he was sufficiently recovered to make the journey home. Everything was muddled, in those days, and so he chose not to question his good luck further. The Canadian possessed an almost perfect memory for the comings and goings of ships in the harbor that had been under his purview, and many of the men who'd been stationed in Singapore with Lucien had gone to him ask after the fate of friends and loved ones who'd departed on ships bound for Hong Kong. Lucien did the same, telling the man the name of the ship that Mei Lin and Li had boarded, and waited apprehensively for his answer.

The Canadian had shaken his head sadly at Lucien's question.  _No,_ he'd said.  _She was set to arrive the day after the Battle of Hong Kong, but she never made it to port. A life raft was found, but all we found was just a couple of kiddies wailing for their mums. No adults were saved._

_The children?_ Lucien had choked in response, his eyes clouding with tears.  _What became of them?_

_Sent to an orphanage on the mainland. I never did hear the name of the place. I'm sorry._

Lucien had stumbled away from him then, making his way back to his bunk, blind with grief, where he curled himself amongst his blankets and wept until exhaustion claimed him. Mei Lin was dead, then; oh, he intended to send a letter to the harbormaster, asking for confirmation, but he had no reason to doubt the Canadian's words. All those years before Lucien had put his family on that boat thinking he was making the best choice for them, that he was sparing them from the impending invasion, but the timing could not have been worse, and he had sent them straight into the arms of his enemies. If only he'd sent them to Australia, or to his friends in London, they might still be alive, but Lucien's choice had condemned them.

There was a chance, of course, that Li had been among the children found on that life raft, and Lucien knew he could not rest until he found out for certain. The reality of his search, however, was rather more complicated than he liked to contemplate. At present he had no money and no way to organize travel for himself. The Japanese had surrendered, but transports to Asia for civilians were hard to come by. Though he had contacts in Hong Kong it would take months for his letters to reach them, and longer still for them to respond, if indeed they were still living. For a brief moment he had considered staying in the Army, lobbying for a position in Hong Kong, but he thought better of it at once. A soldier has very little say in where he is sent, and Lucien didn't fancy signing his life away when he had no guarantee that he would find the answers he sought.

And so he resolved himself to waiting. When he left for his new post - a position he could not tell Lucien anything about - Derek Alderton had vowed to do his best to help his old friend, promised to send correspondence to his father's address in Ballarat should he learn anything useful. Lucien had no home of his own, and was hoping that if nothing else his father would consent to accept his mail, at least until he set himself up somewhere else. And so his plan began to form in his mind. Go to Ballarat, deliver the letter to Mrs. Beazley, speak to his father, find work and accommodations, and then begin the hunt. He could write to the Home Office in London and to the British base in Hong Kong, could ask friends for recommendations and begin the laborious process of contacting orphanages, could save his shillings and wait for tensions to ease enough for him to book himself onto a ship. Every moment he was away from his child he felt her absence as a physical pain in his chest; every moment he thought of Li stranded in a foreign country, bereft of her parents and surrounded by strangers, he wanted to weep, to rend his clothes and beg her forgiveness for his folly, for his failings as a father. The ache he felt would not subside until he held his child again, or until he knew for a fact that she had perished, but all that he could do was put his plan into motion, and wait, and hope.

With his plan foremost in his mind Lucien had walked away from the base in Melbourne on a fine summer day, wound tense and taut as a bowstring as he sat on a crowded bus, clutching a small bag of clothes the Army had provided to him upon his release. He had a few pounds and a letter in his pocket, and no place to call his own.

It was early afternoon when his bus arrived in Ballarat, and Lucien was the first passenger to disembark. He stood for a moment on the pavement, watching the people passing him by, laughing and chatting amongst themselves as the sun smiled down upon them. Though many of them no doubt had friends or loved ones who'd joined the fight, Ballarat seemed very far away from the carnage of the war that had so shaped the course of Lucien's life. There were no ruined buildings or black scorch marks of bombs upon the streets, no somber faces of shell-shocked soldiers or wailing mothers. In the twelve years since Lucien had last stood upon that street corner it seemed the city had changed very little, and yet it had changed completely, for it was no longer his home.

A young man inside the bus depot gave Lucien rather sketchy instructions to the Beazley farm; it was miles outside of town, but the boy drew a crude map on the back of a travel brochure and Lucien set out, relatively sure of his route. In the months since his release from the camp Lucien had done his best to regain some of his strength, had marched with the soldiers still required to do their physical training and spent an hour each night doing press-ups and the like beside his bunk, determined to never again be as weak or as helpless as he had felt the day he was liberated. Though he was not as muscular as he had been before Singapore fell he was restored enough to undertake a meandering stroll on a warm afternoon, and he trusted his feet to carry him where he needed to go.

As he walked along he could not help but search every face he passed, wondering if he recognized any of them, if any of them recognized him. Somehow he doubted that they would; he looked quite different from the boy he had been, before. In a fit of pique he had grown a beard, thumbing his nose at the officers who demanded that soldiers be clean-shaven, determined from the outset that he would never again raise his hand in salute to anyone. Beneath that beard his face was thinner that it had been, and his hair was cropped close. The unruly blonde curls that had made him so identifiable as a young man had been shorne by the Japanese and the threat of lice had encouraged him to keep his hair short in Melbourne, but now that he was free he was determined to let it grow long once again. His shoulders were still broad, but the faded Army greens he wore now were nothing like the finer clothes he'd favored in his youth. No, he told himself as he walked, no one was likely to look upon a weary soldier and see the haughty face of Lucien Blake.

The buildings and orderly streets of Ballarat gave way to lush fields as he continued on his way, soy and wheat and the distant mournful calling of cattle keeping him company. He followed the directions he'd been given to the letter, and soon enough found his feet turning up a long dirt path.  _This isn't such a bad place,_ he thought to himself. Nothing but miles and miles of blue sky and farmland, no crowded houses or clamoring of cars and pedestrians. There were birds wheeling overhead, one solitary cat watching them lazily from the tall grass, and for the first time in a very long time, Lucien Blake smiled. The very air seemed rich with freedom, the breeze a warm and comforting reminder that there was nothing to constrain him in this place.

But then the road turned to the left, and the farmhouse came into view, and Lucien's heart sank in his chest.

It was not the most auspicious abode. The path stopped, rather abruptly, right at the front door, where several pairs of muddy boots stood sentinel by the steps. The building was long and low, and even from several meters away Lucien could tell the roof was in need of repair. To the left was a small henhouse, and though the hopeful clucking of chickens wafted out from inside it seemed to Lucien that the structure stood on the verge of collapse. To the right was a shed with a door that didn't sit quite flush, latched closed with twine. He could just make out the fluttering of a clothesline around one corner of the house, and beyond it long rows of vegetables languishing in the sunshine. He could almost make out the distant lowing of a single, udder-heavy cow, but the sound was so soft that Lucien couldn't quite be sure it was real.

The walk had taken him a few hours, and the sun was shifting lower on the horizon;  _they're probably just sitting down to eat,_ Lucien thought sadly, his eyes studying the dusty windows. Inside this house was a woman and her children, a little family who had no notion of the sorrow that stood just outside their door. Quite suddenly Lucien realized he had no idea what to say to Mrs. Beazley, when she opened the door; he had been so focused on getting here that he had given very little to thought as to how best to explain himself. He was not trained for this, for standing upon the doorstep and telling a woman her husband had died years before. There was a chance, of course, that she already knew, that somehow the great machinery of the Army had found Sergeant Beazley's name on some list and dispatched correspondence to his widow, but it seemed a rather small chance. There were too many men like Sergeant Beazley, and too many widows like his Jeannie, for the Army to contact all of them in the course of just a few short months. Likely Jeannie still held out some hope that her soldier was coming home, tucked her children into bed at night and held their hands while they whispered prayers for their father's safe return, and now Lucien had come to take even that scant comfort from them.

Still, though, he had made a promise. He squared his shoulders and marched up to the door, rapping on it sharply before his courage deserted him utterly.

In response to his knock there came the sudden scrambling of feet from inside, though he could not say for sure whether they belonged to a dog or a child. He reached into his pocket with one hand, curling his fingers around the envelope, and steeled himself for what was to come.

In a moment the door was opening, and when he saw who stood on the other side, he could not keep the tender smile from his face.

"You must be Lily," he said to the little girl. She must have been about eleven, he thought as he looked at her, recalling her father's recitation of his children's names and ages. A few years older than Li, Lily was tall for her age, with long, curly hair in some coppery shade between brown and blonde. Her eyes were huge and blue, trusting and somber, and she regarded him with all the uncertainty of a child faced with a stranger. She wore a plain brown dress embroidered in a pattern of pink flowers and beside her there stood a great rangy beast of a dog whose gaze was altogether less than welcoming.

"Is your mum home?" Lucien asked when the girl did not speak. The answer came, not from Lily, but from the musical voice of her mother rushing in from another room.

"Lily, what did I tell you about opening the door by yourself?" Jean Beazley chided her daughter gently as she came into view, a harried expression on her face as she wiped her hands clean on the apron tied around her waist. "Go back to the kitchen, love."

Mrs. Beazley had not yet taken a good look at Lucien, distracted as she was by her child, and so she did not see the look of agonized recognition that crossed his face. For in truth the moment she stepped into his line of sight Lucien had stopped breathing, had damn near collapsed on the spot from shock, as recognition and hope and fear and guilt slammed into him with all the force of a hurricane. So many years had passed, and so much had changed, and yet when he looked upon her he knew her in an instant. The high, sharp curve of her cheeks, the artful tumble of her dark hair, the flashing brilliance of her grey eyes, the full lines of her lips; it was a face Lucien thought he had lost to time, and yet when he gazed upon her now, he could not deny what it was he saw. Her hips were fuller, her expression more wary, but she was still  _Jean,_  the most beautiful girl he'd ever seen, the first girl he'd ever loved, the one woman who had changed the course of his life forever.

And he had come to shatter her heart.


	5. Chapter 5

_2 January 1946_

Jean spared a moment to smile fondly at her daughter as Lily made her way back to the kitchen.  _My little lady,_ Jean often called her; eleven years old and tall for her age, Lily was sweet and thoughtful, more circumspect than either of her brothers - and rather adept at giving orders. Jean much preferred spending time with her children to answering the door for callers who appeared unannounced after suppertime, and so she was in no particular hurry to greet whoever was at the door. Jean's friends never came calling without invitation, and she was deeply worried that perhaps it was that man from the bank again, come to tell her that they had decided to foreclose after all. She was doing her best to keep the bills paid, to keep food on the table, to keep her head above water, and she couldn't bear such a crushing blow, not now when the war was over and soldiers were coming home in droves.

Of course, that thought gave her pause as well; Jean knew two other ladies who had opened their doors just before Christmas to be met by somber-faced men in dark uniforms, telling them their husbands were never coming home. News from the front was confusing and hard to come by, and Jean had not received word of her husband for three long years. As each day passed she tried to tell herself that this was a good thing, that surely if Christopher were dead she would have heard by now. It was a thin hope, but it was all the hope that she had, and she would not willingly give it up.

Whoever it was, it wouldn't do to keep them waiting; Jean took a deep breath, reached out to scratch their great hound Max behind the ears, and looked into the face of the man who had intruded upon her peaceful evening.

What she found was neither bank manager nor Army officer; oh, he was dressed in the faded greens of a soldier with a pack slung over his shoulder, but he wore a distinctly non-regulation beard, and his face was gaunt and lined. There was something about that face, about those bright blue eyes, that tugged at her memory, but she could not quite place it, like a song playing too faintly from another room.

And then he spoke, and Jean's world came crashing down around her ears.

"Jean," he croaked, and the sound of that voice took her like a punch to the gut. Her left hand fisted in Max's fur while her right rose to cover her mouth, her eyes gone wide and round with shock. She would know that voice anywhere, for it was the voice of the first man she had ever loved, the man who had abandoned her, the man she had cursed and wept over until family and hard work at last soothed the ache in her heart. That was the voice of her fondest dream never realized, the voice of a man who was a stranger to her now, though he still haunted her sometimes in the still of the night.

Tears sprung to her eyes unbidden as she stared at him with fear and grief rising like bile in the back of her throat. He was so  _thin,_ his clothes dusty and ragged, his shoulders slumping as he gazed at her mutely, no doubt able to discern the tumult of emotions playing across her face. This was not her Lucien, she thought faintly as she drank in the sight of him; this was not her wild boy, the one who had whispered in her ear of the beauty of the streets of London, the one who had with gentle hands coaxed her into ecstasy, cradled her close, left her delirious with happiness. This man was hard and sad and faded, worn thin and ragged by what sort of horror she could not say. There was no denying his voice, however, or the shine of those bright blue eyes, and her heart ached for him, for the boy he had been, for the shadow of a man he had become.

Lucien Blake was the last man she had ever expected to find her doorstep, was not the soldier whose safe return she had prayed for every night for years on end, and yet he was  _here_ , somehow, risen from the murky recesses of her memory to haunt her in her waking hours.

"Lucien," she breathed at last, knowing she ought to speak to him though she could not for the life of her fathom what to say. How had he found her, here in this farmhouse he had never seen before?  _Why_  had he found her, come to disturb her from the gentle domesticity of her life with his wild, reckless heart? The longer she looked at him, the more concerned she became; Lucien had never been so still, so tense, quiet.  _What has he seen, out there in the world?_ She asked herself. Never would she ever have imagined Lucien -  _her Lucien -_ as a soldier; he did not take well to being told what to do, and he had a dreamer's heart, soft and kind. Not practical and steady, like Christopher.  _Oh, my Christopher._ For the first time in four long years Jean was glad that Christopher was not by her side, for she could not imagine how she would begin to explain Lucien's presence in their home, and she was fairly certain that given the chance Christopher would have thrashed him on sight.

He cleared his throat. "I'm sorry to disturb you," he said at last, and Jean found her heart was breaking all over again as she heard the distance in his tone, noted the sadness in those blue eyes that used to dance with laughter, with love, every time he looked at her. "I really need to speak to you."

_Oh, God, no,_  Jean thought, suddenly horrified. Had he come to make amends, to beg for her forgiveness, to seek a place to stay? Whatever he wanted from her she was certain she could not give it to him, not now that she was a woman wed, with three children to look after. Still, though, this was  _Lucien,_ and a piece of her heart loved him, still. Shaken as she was by his arrival she found herself quite suddenly taking a step back, welcoming him into her home.

"Would you like a cup of tea?" she asked in an unsteady voice.

* * *

Lucien followed along silently as Jean led the way back to the kitchen, trying not to stare too long at the house around him. Though it was spotlessly clean the house was almost alarmingly modest; the furnishings were worn, the rugs threadbare, and the windows murky with age. The great rangy dog kept close to Jean's heels, not letting Lucien get too close, and he found himself grateful for the distance between them. Though he had known that his Jean must have moved on, must have forged a life for herself without him in it, he had never, for a moment, imagined anything like this, like coming to her home and finding it so terribly austere, like looking in her eyes and seeing the guarded expression of a stranger. He had never imagined her children, or her husband, but he found he could not stop, now. Lily was eleven; how quickly had Jean recovered from their whirlwind romance? He asked himself. How quickly had she fallen into Christopher's arms? Had she loved Sergeant Beazley more than she loved him? And what kind of a man asked himself those sorts of questions?

In the kitchen he was greeted by the sight of the three youngsters gathered around the table, the remains of their supper laid about before them and anxious looks upon their faces when they noted Lucien's arrival. The boys were mirror images of each other, with thick, curly dark hair and blue-grey eyes, though one looked rather more quarrelsome than the other. Before any of the children could say a word, Jean clapped her hands.

"Right, you lot," she said. "Outside. Go and play."

This command was met with an immediate response as the three of them rushed to their feet and began racing for the door; amongst their excited chatter Lucien distinctly heard the word  _football._

"Take Max with you!" Jean called after them, though the dog was already trotting along happily behind them. "And stay where I can see you!"

It was impossible to say whether the children had heard her or not, though Lucien watched her cross to the little window above the sink, her gaze fixed firmly on the green grass beyond until at last she seemed satisfied that they would heed her warning. His gut was churning, and he found himself hardly able to blink now that he was alone with her. The shattering silence the children left in their wake seeped into his weary bones, and dread filled him; he knew what he had come to do, but he could not bear the thought of it. Jean seemed happy enough here, with her children and her dog and her farm, meager though it might have been. How could he do this to her, tell her that she had once again been left all alone by a man she cared for? A man she likely cared more for than she ever had for him, considering she had never answered his letters, and yet had married Christopher Beazley and borne his children.

"Have a seat, Lucien, please," Jean said without looking at him, filling an old-fashioned stove-top kettle. He did as he was bid, dropping his bag and stowing it beneath the table before taking a seat. The scent of the supper laid out before him was almost overwhelming, reminded him he hadn't eaten since Melbourne, but it seemed Jean had little enough as it was, and he would not dare impose upon her kindness and ask to be fed.

As the moments dragged on he only grew more uncomfortable; she was so beautiful, was Jean, still lithe and soft and pretty as a flower, but his admiration of her was coupled with an overwhelming sense of shame. He was only here because he'd failed to save her husband's life, because he had come as the harbinger of doom, and she was making tea for him, as cool and calm if it were an everyday occurrence for her to host a former lover in her family's kitchen.  _Perhaps not so calm,_ he thought as he observed her, noted the trembling in her hands. There had been the briefest moment, there at the front door, when her eyes had glistened as if with tears, but she gave no sign of such distress now. Perhaps the years had taught her how to hide the true feelings of her heart. It was not a welcome revelation.

"There we are," she said at last, bringing him a steaming cup of tea. "Milk? Or sugar?"

"I'll have it just as it is, thank you," he said, not wanting to be a burden, and the minute relaxing of her shoulders in response told him that he had made the right choice. Given the state of this place he did not imagine there was much milk or sugar to go around, and he would not take it from her. Jean spun away from him, pouring a cup of tea for herself, and then at last came to sit across the table from him.

"Why are you here, Lucien?" she asked him finally, when the silence became too great for either of them to bear. She was watching him warily over the rim of her mug, her eyes wide and uncertain. The last thing he wanted to do in this moment was to answer her question, to unburden himself to her. He wanted to sit here and drink his tea in silence, wanted to soak in the beauty of her face, the distant sounds of her children's laughter floating in from outside the window, wanted to bask in the glow of the early evening sun and set aside his doubt and his grief. But he had a job to do, and it would not be a kindness to delay any longer.

"Jean," he said, stuttering as her name passed his lips, still unable to comprehend somehow that this was real, that the Mrs. J. Beazley he had thought of so fondly for the last three years was in fact the same Jean who had rested naked in his arms a lifetime ago. It was a twist of fate too cruel to be believed. "For the last twelve years," he began slowly, dropping his gaze to his mug, hoping it would be easier if he did not have to look into her heavenly face when he broke her heart, "I served in the Army. I was stationed in Singapore, when the Japanese invaded. My unit was captured, and we were imprisoned in Selarang."

"Oh,  _Lucien,_ " she gasped, reaching as if to lay her hand on his arm, though she thought better of it and promptly folded her hands together in her lap.

"Please," he breathed, unable to stop himself from glancing at her once, unable to deny the way she flinched at the hopelessness of his tone. She gave him a curt little nod, and so he took a deep breath, and continued. "I worked in the camp infirmary. I wanted to help, if I could."  _Do you understand, Jean?_ He wondered glumly.  _Do you know what's coming?_ "In December of 1942…" he trailed off, grief closing his throat, making it all but impossible to speak. The letter in his pocket burned him hot as fire. "In December of 1942, a young Sergeant was brought to me."

" _No."_ It was a single word, hardly audible despite the fact that they were only separated by her rickety kitchen table. It was a word that encompassed a world of pain, of horror, of tragedy that he had single-handedly rained down upon her. Once more he raised his eyes to her face, shamed and cowed by the depth of grief in her grey eyes, the understanding, the terror. Tears sparkled diamond-bright in the corners of those grey eyes, waiting for the chance to fall.  _You've come this far,_  he told himself, though he could hardly stand to carry on.  _You must finish the job._

"I'm so sorry, Jean," he whispered. She remained still as a stone, hardly breathing, and though that did not make it any easier, at least she did not curse him, did not strike him, did not dissolve into hysterical sobs. "Christopher had been gravely wounded, and I didn't have the medication or equipment to treat him. He died two days after they brought him to me."

Jean closed her eyes, shutters falling and blocking out the light that had shone upon him only moments before. She lifted a single, delicate hand to her mouth, to stifle the sound of the her loss. He heard it, just the same, felt the shattering of her heart there in this place that she called home.

"Before he died, Christopher asked a favor from me. He wanted me to bring this to you."

At long last he reached into his pocket, and pulled out the letter, extending it to her with a trembling hand. Jean's eyes fluttered open, and she stared at the letter as if it were a snake poised to strike, as if should she only refuse to accept it she might keep her husband alive, that little bit longer.

"You said…" she started to speak, though the tears choked her, tore the breath from her lungs. She gave her head a little shake and tried again, and Lucien couldn't help but think how strong she was, how brave, how  _good,_ how much more than this she deserved. "You said he...died, in 1942? Lucien, have you held this letter all that time?"

He nodded. Still his arm stretched between them, and still she refused to take the letter. "I was released in September, but it took me this long to get away from the Army. I'm sorry it didn't come sooner. I didn't want to risk anything happening to it."

" _Lucien,"_ she whispered his name again, and he knew by the look in her eyes that she was trying to imagine it, trying to imagine the three long years he'd spent holding this letter, the dedication that had kept her husband's final words safe so that they could be delivered to her now.

"I didn't know he was your husband, Jean," he told her sadly. "He told me about his wife, his children, but I never imagined…."

Jean stopped him then by snatching the letter out of his hands. Any further words he might have said were rendered moot, at that point; it didn't matter what Lucien had come to tell her, not when she held her husband's final words in her hands. He could see her fingers shaking as she gently, reverently peeled the envelope open, as she withdrew the worn paper from inside. In the stillness he watched her, her eyes roving across the page, the tears that began to slide unchecked down her soft cheeks. Not for the first time, Lucien wondered what words Christopher Beazley had left for his beloved wife, but he knew that those words did not belong to him, that he had no right to ask, and so he held his tongue. He would have sipped his tea, but he did not trust himself, was certain he would have choked on it.  _I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry,_ he thought morosely, a silent message he wished she could hear. Not for the first time he wished that their roles had been reversed; his family was shattered, lost, his wife dead and maybe his child as well, unlike Christopher Beazley, who'd had everything in the world to live for. The unfathomable cruelty of the war that had ripped their lives apart loomed large in that place.

At long last Jean finished reading the letter. She rose unsteadily to her feet, her eyes glassy and unseeing, tears splashing down her cheeks. With gentle hands she held the faded page against her chest, and then as he watched she began to walk away from him. Deeply concerned by her reaction Lucien rose to his feet and followed her for a moment, but then her feet carried her to the back of the house where she slipped behind a door that no doubt led to her bedroom. The moment the door was closed a single, agonized wail escaped her, and Lucien leaned back against the wall, staggered by the depth of her grief.

_You did this to her,_ he thought as he lingered there in the corridor of her home, the faintest sound of her sobs drifting through the closed door.  _You did this._

For nearly twelve years Lucien had lamented the loss of this woman, had wondered how different his life might have been, if only she had come to him as he begged her to do. Now, though, he knew that she had chosen a different path for herself, had a made a life all her own - albeit a life very different from the one she'd dreamed about when she was young - and he had come like the angel of death to take it all away. And as he stood there on trembling legs he thought of his own wife, thought of how deeply he had cared for her, how much he had loved their daughter, thought of beautiful sunlit days beneath the dappled leaves of the trees in their back garden, thought of Mei Lin lost to the boundless hunger of the sea, thought of his child, who might still live or who might have perished in agony alongside her mother, and the sudden wash of grief upon him had him gasping for air in a moment. Everything was too tight, too close, too much for him to bear; blindly he staggered away, his unsteady feet carrying him out the back door.

Fresh air filled his lungs and he gasped like a drowning man. There in the sun-drenched grass three children were careening wildly, kicking a football that had seen better days back and forth between them, calling to one another gaily, blind to the sorrow that waited for them in that house. Lucien collapsed on the grass, too weary to stand another moment longer, and watched them at their game.  _They deserve so much better_ , he thought, so choked with grief that a tear of his own coursed down his cheek. Lily's long copper hair streamed behind her as she ran, her brothers shouting with all the exuberance of youth, the very picture of happy innocence. The news Lucien had brought to their doorstep would weigh them down, would haunt them for all the rest of their days, and he was so sorry for the part he had played in demolishing their happy childhoods that he could hardly stand himself.

As he sat there on the grass the dog - Max, Jean had called him - came ambling up to him. Max regarded him warily for a moment, and then promptly sat beside him. Lucien reached out and scratched him behind the ears, taking comfort from the presence of another living creature. In another life, a perfect life, maybe these would have been his children, maybe this would have been his dog, his house, his wife, but life was far from perfect, and Lucien had no idea where he should go from here.


	6. Chapter 6

_2 January 1946_

Lucien could not say quite how long he had been sitting there, his heart aching, his hands clammy, the evening sun warming his face, before the children took note of his arrival. He had been watching them all unthinking, one hand resting on Max's fluffy head, his thoughts too chaotic for him to make any sense of them. Each time he closed his eyes Jean's stricken face floated before him, and in the recesses of his mind her agonized cry echoed like some ghastly bell. It didn't seem possible, somehow, that such horror should have found him on such a beautiful day, and he could not fathom the road that had led him to this point.

A quiet voice roused him from his misery, forced him to focus on something other than the turmoil that gripped him, as Jean's daughter came walking up to him hesitantly. Behind her the boys had stopped their game, one of them clutching the football while they both looked on with eyes wide and suspicious. Perhaps as the eldest Lily had felt it was her responsibility to address the stranger in their midst, or perhaps she was simply the braver of the three; for whatever reason she came to a stop before him, and spoke to him with all the sincerity of a child.

"What's your name?" she asked him curiously. She was a beautiful child, Jean's daughter, with her mother's gentle face and wild, curly hair all her own. And if Lucien's heart broke anew when he looked at her, thinking of his own child, his own beautiful girl, he knew it was not her fault, and so he cleared his throat and spoke, though his voice sounded scratchy and rough even to his own ears.

"I'm Lucien," he said.

"Are you friends with my mum?" she asked, her bare toes ruffling the grass at her feet.

"I am," he answered slowly. Lucien wasn't sure how much truth there was to that statement; he had loved Lily's mum once, had loved her desperately, madly, completely, with everything he had, but he had not spoken to her in twelve long years, and after the news he had just delivered he wasn't sure they would ever speak again. He couldn't blame Jean if she wanted nothing more to do with him; she had a husband to mourn and children to feed, and he could not expect her to spare a moment for the man who had shattered her world.

"Do you know where my dad is?" Lily continued. As she spoke her brothers inched closer, no doubt hungry for news of their father. They came to a stop just behind her, flanking her like two little knights keeping watch over their queen, and as Lucien faced his audience he very nearly began to weep again. It was not his place, he knew, to answer such a question, to tell them what had become of their father. How and when they learned that he was gone was entirely up to Jean, and though he was loath to lie to them Lucien was far more fearful of their mother's wrath.

"I met him once, years ago," Lucien said finally. "He's a very brave man, your dad."

"Where did you meet him?" the more thunderous-looking of the two boys asked, stepping forward with the football clutched in his hands. Though he appeared to be younger than his brother there was a challenge in his gaze, and Lucien was for a brief moment reminded of Jean as he had known her, the way she had railed against her quiet, conventional life. Had this boy inherited her dreams of a bigger world, a better life than Ballarat could offer? Did he resent the farm as much as his mother had done in her youth?

"What's your name, young man?" Lucien asked.

"Jack," the lad answered sullenly, something impatient and willful in his expression that almost made Lucien smile to see it. This one was tough, he knew that already; perhaps they would be all right, this little family that he had only just started to become acquainted with. Perhaps with Jean's strength, her courage, her sheer force of will, they would carry on together.

"Well, Jack," he said, "the last time I saw your father we were in Singapore."

"Where's that?" Jack asked.

"Malaya," his brother answered. Until this moment young Christopher had been silent, watching the proceedings with grey eyes so like his mother's, deep and thoughtful. Watching him now, the thought of his name bringing to mind the last wretched moments of his father's life, filled Lucien with sorrow.

"That's a bad place," Lily said slowly, and the fear in her expression tore at Lucien's heartstrings anew. His daughter was out there, somewhere, frightened, just as Lily was, all too aware of how dark and terrible the world could be. His daughter was somewhere, cold and lonely, and he was stuck here in the dreadful isolation of Ballarat.

"Oh, not really," Lucien said, trying to sound reassuring. "I lived there for quite some time. It's a beautiful city, full of all sorts of people. There are fruit trees, and dances, and little girls and boys just like you."

Lily Beazley looked like she didn't believe a word he'd said. Beyond the children the sun had sunk below the trees, and seeing as Jean had yet to emerge from her bedroom, Lucien felt a certain responsibility to take charge of them. Someone had to look after them, and if Jean wasn't yet prepared to face them, Lucien could hardly blame her.

"Do you know," he said, "I think your mother is feeling rather unwell, but I know that the dishes need to be washed. Will you three come help me take care of that for her?"

"That's a girl's job," Jack said spitefully. Lucien stared at him, aghast, suddenly confronted once more by the old-fashioned, conventional nature of life in his hometown, but he was spared having to address the lad's comment when his older brother stepped in.

"Mum says we all have to help," young Christopher said solemnly. "It doesn't matter who does what, as long as the work gets done."

"Bravo," Lucien said, relieved, rising to his feet and wiping the grass from his trousers absently. "I bet if we all do it together, we'll finish in half the time."

And so it was that Lucien found himself in Jean's kitchen as darkness fell, washing the dishes alongside her daughter while her sons dried them and stacked them neatly away. The routine of the work helped him, calmed him, gave him something else to think about, and the children proved to be quite loquacious, once he got them started talking about school. Jack hated everything about it - and, apparently, found himself in trouble on a regular basis - and Christopher had the best marks in his year for maths, and Lily loved history, all the stories about far off people and places.

As the last plate was dried and placed in the cabinet Lucien found himself rather at a loss as to what to do next; it was dark, now, but there was still no sign of Jean. It was a Wednesday, and that meant that the children would have school the next day, though he rather doubted Jean would send them, given the news she'd just received. Lucien knew that in her shoes he would want to keep his children close, and that to send them off after receiving such a blow would be cruel. They did not know yet, however, and as he had determined that he would not be the one to tell them, he was unsure how to proceed.

The sound of soft footsteps from the corridor saved him; he spun around, dishrag clutched in his hands, and watched as Jean stepped into view.

Though she was pale and rather wan she had evidently taken the time to wash her face, to prepare herself to face her children. She wore the same dark brown skirt and blue blouse she had been wearing before, both looking a bit faded with wear though they fit her well; Jean had always been a fine seamstress, he recalled. Her family had not had the money to spend on fine clothes or even on fine fabric, but she had made do, had always been beautifully put together. It would seem that time had not changed that about her, that she still managed to make the most out of what little she had.

She studied him curiously as she took in the sight before her, the kitchen now spotless and the children clustered around Lucien.

"You washed the dishes," she said in a tone tinged with surprise.

"Lucien said you weren't feeling well so we decided to help," Lily explained sagely.

* * *

Her daughter's words took her like a punch to the gut; the tears threatened to drown her once again, but Jean fought them back with a will. Now was not the time to go to pieces, no matter how her world had crumbled around her.  _How did it come to this?_ She asked herself as she stared at them, her former lover and her children and her clean kitchen. There were grass stains on Lucien's trousers and dirt on Lily's feet, and across the room from her Lucien's eyes shone at her, deep and blue and more troubled than she had ever seen them before. Much as she was grateful to him for looking after the little ones while grief overwhelmed her she found that now she did not know what to say to him. The riot of emotions he inspired in her left her feeling weak and out of sorts; she had loved this man, once, had loved him truly, and when he left her he had taken all her hopes and dreams with him. And then she had loved Christopher, loved the comfort and the safety he had brought to her, loved the familiarity of the life they'd built together, but now Lucien had taken that as well. Oh, Jean knew it wasn't his fault, knew that he was not the one responsible for her husband's death, but he was the one who had brought that news to her door. He was the one who had survived, gaunt and pale-faced and broken, when her husband had been taken from her, when her children had been left fatherless.

And deep in her heart a terrible fear had taken root the moment she saw his face. Before he'd delivered his news she had rushed the children from the house, had hoped that he had not taken the time to really look at her daughter, to see all the echoes of his own face writ large in her features. That wild, curly hair, those blue eyes; Lily looked enough like her mother to keep from arousing the suspicions of the local gossips, but when Jean looked at the pair of them now she knew that anyone who saw them together might have cause to question. Did he suspect? Did he know already? What would he do once he learned the truth? Lily was her girl, her heart, and Jean could not bear the thought of what might happen, of how things might change, frightened of this man who was a stranger to her now storming into her life and trying to take her daughter from her. She wanted to fly across the kitchen and wrap Lily in her arms and shriek at Lucien until he left, she wanted to collapse on the floor and weep, she wanted to bury her face in his chest and beg him to tell her that everything would be all right. She wanted so many things, but she was so terribly sad and so terribly scared that she could not fathom which path she ought to take.

Practicality was her only option, the only safe road before her feet, and so she stepped forward and addressed her children.

"Right, you lot," she said. "Go and get washed up. It's time for bed."

There was some grumbling from Jack, but that was nothing out of the ordinary, and then they were shuffling off and Jean found herself alone with Lucien once more.

"Thank you," she said, somewhat uncomfortably.

"It was the least I could do," Lucien answered her earnestly. He stood sentinel by the sink, dirty dishrag clutched in his hands, his soldier's pack still stowed away beneath the table, looking as awkward and out of his depth as Jean felt.

It was torture, in a way, having him back as she had prayed for so often in her youth, knowing the price she'd had to pay for his safe return. He looked as if he'd been through hell, and Jean felt as if she'd taken up residence there, and she had no idea what to say to him. She was resolved to speak to her children in the morning, to keep them home from school, keep them close. There were so many things she would need to do; she would have to contact the Army, though based on what little Lucien had told her she was deeply worried that she would never receive her husband's body, never be able to bury him next to his father the way he'd always planned. Her hold on the farm would be even more tenuous, now that she knew for certain that Christopher would never come back to her, and just the thought of all she would have to face in the coming days had her leaning against the door jamb for support.

"I suppose you'll be staying with your father?" she asked faintly, surprised by the sound of her own voice. Once she spoke she realized she had done the right thing; it was growing late, the sun had gone down, and she did not need to be alone in her house with the man who had divested her of her virtue in her youth, the man who had comforted her husband during the final hours of his life.

"Actually," Lucien answered, shifting uncomfortably on his feet, "I haven't spoken to my father."

"He doesn't know you're back?" Jean couldn't help the note of accusation that crept into her voice as she spoke; knowing what it was, to spend years worrying for a soldier of her own, she heartily disapproved of him delaying the revelation of his own survival to his father.

"I haven't spoken to him for twelve years, Jean," Lucien answered wearily. His answer shocked her; though it had been so very long since that night when Jean had last seen him, she had never realized that he had cut his father out of his life completely. Something must have happened, then, something terrible, to send him running from her side, running from his family, running straight to the Army, but Jean could not imagine what it might have been, and she was not about to ask.

"I took the bus from Melbourne this afternoon, and I walked straight here. I had a job to do, you see," he continued.

Now that her children could not see her Jean found she lacked the fortitude to keep her tears at bay; a single one escaped her, slipping slowly down her cheek. For all that she had spent more than a decade cross with him, devastated by him, terrified each time she looked at her daughter and saw the echo of his face, Jean had never once wished him harm. Looking at him now, knowing that he had spent so many long years held captive by the enemy, knowing that he had kept Christopher's letter close, kept it safe, and delivered it at the first opportunity - even if he did not know it was meant for her - was a thought too beautiful in its tragedy. She could not face it, did not want to face it, but she could see no way around it.

"You walked here?" she asked, somewhat lamely, thinking of all the miles that separated the farm from the bus depot.

"I did. I hate to ask you this, Jean, I know I can't expect anything from you, but it's dark, and it's a long walk back. I don't want to disturb my father so late at night…" his voice trailed off, no doubt hoping that she would fill in the rest of the sentence herself.

Jean stared at him in horror.  _Did he do this on purpose?_ She asked herself, studying him in the jaundiced light of the overhead lamp. Was he really so cruel, so calculating, as to deliberately arrange the circumstances so that he must spend the night in her house?

Though she wanted to hate him, wanted to believe the worst of him, wanted to throw him out of her house and never see him again, as she looked at him now she saw nothing but honesty in his face. He had walked all this way on foot, had looked after her children, had cleaned her bloody kitchen, and she knew he had not done it for any nefarious purpose.

_Damn him._

"We don't have much room," she answered him in an unsteady voice. "But you can kip on the sofa, if that's all right."

"Honestly, Jean, I can sleep on the floor. I'll leave at first light, you'll never even know I was here."

And so it was that Jean found herself laying out an extra blanket, showing Lucien to the loo and watching him settle down on her sofa. Assured that her guest was comfortable and unable to bear the burden of his presence a single moment longer Jean left him there in the darkness, checking in on her children before finally stepping into her own room at last.

The empty bed on the other side of the room loomed large and empty as some vast chasm, and what little strength she'd used to get through the evening deserted her. Leaning back against the door Jean's knees gave out, and she slid slowly to the floor, weeping as quietly as she could, weeping for the loss of her husband, weeping for the torment Lucien had endured, weeping for fear of what the new day would bring.


	7. Chapter 7

_3 January 1946_

Through the long dark hours of the night, Jean slept not a wink. In truth she did not even try; each time she closed her eyes she saw her husband's face, saw Christopher as he had been on the day he left her, pale-faced but resolute, certain that his choice had been the right one. Jean had harbored no such faith, had begged him to reconsider, but once he'd signed his name on the page his fate had been sealed, and no amount of pleading from his terrified wife would sway him or the Army. Her bed held no comfort for her now, now that she knew Christopher would never join her there again, and so she spent the night sitting on the little bench in front of her dresser, staring into the frosted glass of the old mirror she'd taken from her parents' house when her father died, wondering where on earth she would go from here.

_Three years._ Christopher had been dead for three years. Three years of prayers, three years of assuring her children that their father would return to them well and whole, three years of watching them pass milestones Christopher would never see, three years of planning, of struggle, of clinging to hope, and all for naught, for all along Christopher had been dead and buried in the soil of a land Jean would never see. If only there was someone she could blame, someone she could rail against, someone whose fault it was that Christopher was taken from her and she was left in ignorance all the while, Jean might have felt a little better, but she could hold no one accountable, could write no sternly worded letters. Lucien had done his best, had brought the news to her as soon as he possibly could, sooner even than the Army, and she knew she ought to be thankful for it but this truth brought her no peace.

Beyond her bedroom window the sun began to rise, and the first light of dawn touched her pale skin, danced across the silver frame that held the only photo of her husband she possessed, a picture taken to commemorate their wedding day. She stared at their faces, twelve years younger and terrified, stared at the bouquet of flowers she held strategically to cover the swell of her belly, stared at Christopher's round, beardless face, at his arm around her shoulder and the smile upon his lips.

_You did this to him,_ she thought as she gazed upon that photograph. Christopher had known that Lily wasn't his from the very start. He had always been fond of Jean, and she of him, though in the beginning he had been no more than a dear friend to her. And then she had foolishly taken up with Lucien Blake, and Lucien had left her without so much as a note to tell her where he'd gone, and then, a few short weeks later, she had discovered to her dismay that she was carrying his child. With no way to contact him, certain that he was never coming back and equally certain that her parents would cast her out the moment they discovered the truth Jean had tearfully confessed her predicament to Christopher.

And it was then, sitting on the workbench in his parents' barn on a fine summer evening, when Christopher had come up with his plan. He'd taken her by the hand, told her that he loved her most ardently, that he always had, and that if she would have him he would keep her secret, would love her child as his own, would gladly build a life with her. Jean had stared at him in wonder, feeling as if she were seeing him for the first time, the blue of his eyes, the dark tumbling curls of his hair, the warmth of his work-callused hands, the sincerity of his spirit. He wasn't as clever or as worldly as Lucien, but he was good, and he was kind, hardworking and steady. What more could Jean want, from the father of her children? His grandfather had died and left behind a little farm, a farm that Christopher's father had promised to give to him the day that he wed.

_We could start fresh, Jeannie,_ Christopher had told her earnestly.  _We'd have a house, and with a bit of work I could make money out of the farm. You could raise the baby, and we could be a family, the three of us. No one needs to know. Let me take care of you._

At the time Jean had found herself wondering what had possessed him to do such a thing, what sort of man he was, to so willingly accept a child that was not his, a wife who had already given herself to another. She knew the answer to that question now, knew that Christopher had been passionate, and impulsive, and that he had loved her more than anything else in the world. And it was for the sake of that love he had died, she was sure, for if he had never married her, if he had not spent eight long years trying to prove to himself that he was better than the man who'd left her pregnant and alone, if they had never rowed, Christopher might never have gone to war. He might have married a girl whose heart belonged to him and him alone, and lived out his days on the farm, content in his quiet life. But he hadn't; he had chosen her, and he had been damned for that choice.

_I'm so sorry,_ Jean thought bleakly, her eyes riveted to the blurry lines of his face in that black and white photograph. He had given her everything, had worked his fingers to the bone, had loved Lily as his own, had given her two sons and a roof over her head and if he sometimes still questioned her regard for him, if he looked at her sometimes in a way that seemed to tell her that he knew she did not love him half so deeply as he loved her, it had only made her more determined to make the best of her life with him. She'd spent nearly a decade trying to love him as he'd deserved, and yet she'd never quite managed it. He was  _good,_ but she had never matched his passion, the depth of his love for her. And now he was gone.

Outside her window the rooster began to crow; she rose to her feet, crossing the room on trembling legs to pull back the curtains and gaze out upon the rising sun. Tears sparkled diamond bright in her eyes, and her hand shook as she raised it to her mouth, tried to stem the flow of her grief. She would have to be strong today, would have to be as steady, as stable as Christopher himself had been, for there were three small children sleeping in that house who would need her, whose whole world was about to come to an end. She had resolved herself to tell them in the morning, but now that the morning was upon her, she could not seem to find the words. How would she do it? When? She could hardly tell them over breakfast, while they lingered over plates of eggs and sausages and she nursed a cup of weak tea.

And then there would be Lucien to deal with as well, Lucien who was sleeping on the sofa but had promised to be gone at first light. First light was upon them, now, and so Jean knew she would have to go and face him, send him walking down the road to his father's house. Would she ever see him again? She wondered as her tears slowly subsided. Did she  _want_  to see him again?

Her feelings as regarded Lucien Blake were a tangled mess she could not decipher. The man had left her, had sworn his love and then abandoned her with no explanation, had been twelve long years away from home without so much as a letter to draw an end to their brief affair. He had left her pregnant and scared, though she supposed she could not fault him for that, as neither of them had known of her condition at the time. The years had changed him, she knew; she could see it in the wildness of his eyes, the softness of his voice, the trembling of his hands. They'd had little enough in common in their younger days, had come from such different backgrounds, with such different experiences of life, and she knew that the time they'd apart would only have served to widen that chasm between them. And whatever she had felt for him back then, the few weeks they'd spent together paled in comparison to the years she'd spent with Christopher. This was Christopher's house, Christopher's bed, Christopher's children sleeping down the hall, and she knew it would be wrong, that she would be damned, for standing in that house and thinking longingly of another man. Lucien needed to go, and Jean needed to let him.

But first she needed to change her clothes and fix her hair, for it would not do for her to be seen wearing yesterday's wrinkled skirt. Whatever the day held in store for her, Jean would face it with her chin held high and not a strand of hair out of place.

* * *

The sound of voices greeted Jean the moment she stepped from her room, and she made her way out to the sitting room with a heavy heart. She had so hoped to usher Lucien from the house before the children woke, but for once it would seem that they had sprung out of bed happy and wide awake, rather than requiring the pleading, cajoling, and threats of their mother to send them shuffling off to the kitchen.

To her surprise, however, the sitting room was empty, the blanket Lucien had slept under folded neatly at the end, and no sign of the man himself. Curious now she continued on into the kitchen, where she found Lily and Jack doing their best to make breakfast, which is to say that Jack had more flour behind his ears than in the bowl and Lily was scrambling eggs in a pan.

"What's all this?" Jean asked from the doorway, hands on her hips.

"Breakfast!" Lily answered breezily, turning to smile proudly at her mother. Around her waist Lily wore Jean's favorite floral apron, tied as tight as it would go and still in danger of falling off her. The sight of Lily so hard at work, wearing that apron and standing by the cooktop filled Jean with a welter of conflicting emotions; though she was proud of her daughter, of her spirit, her industriousness, Jean lamented the sudden loss of her childhood, the way Lily had grown up so fast over the last few years. It seemed as if she'd been a baby one moment and a young woman the next, and Jean had no idea how to make it stop.

"I got the eggs," Lily explained. That was nothing unusual, as going out to the henhouse in the morning and collecting eggs had long been one of Lily's designated chores around the house, but her next words stopped Jean in her tracks. "Jack is going to help me make scones, and Lucien and Christopher are milking the cows."

"Lucien and Christopher are... _what_?"

* * *

"You've never done this before have you, Doctor Blake?" young Christopher asked him warily.

The children had found him well before sunrise, had come slipping out of their rooms on silent feet, delighted to discover that he was still there. Apparently they had discussed it between them the night before, whether their mummy's strange friend would stay the night, and upon discovering him they had pressed him with a million questions. Lucien had deflected their curiosity in much the same way as he had done the night before, suggesting they accomplish their chores as quickly as possible so that they might have breakfast made by the time their mother woke up. He had promised Jean that he would leave at first light, but he imagined that she likely had not slept very well, and he wanted to do whatever he could to make the morning as easy as possible as for her. Lily had explained that in the mornings she gathered the eggs and helped her mother cook while the boys milked the cows, and when Jack had grumbled about how much he hated his assigned duty Lucien had selflessly volunteered to take over the chore and allow Jack to remain in his sister's capable hands.

The problem, of course, was that Lucien had never come within ten feet of a cow, and young Christopher was quite right in his estimation of Doctor Blake's abilities when it came to all things agrarian. Lucien had grown up in a fine house in town and then been shipped off to an even finer boarding school, had spent his youth in the grand cities of Europe before settling down in Singapore, and he did not know the first thing about milking a cow. But he was determined to help, and it seemed that while young Christopher found him a bit hapless, the lad was willing to help him along.

While they had been speaking in the sitting room it was Christopher who had asked him what he did for a living, and Lucien, unable to speak the word  _soldier,_ had confessed that he was in fact a doctor. While Lily and Jack were content to continue to call him by his given name, young Christopher it seemed had taken more of his mother's lessons on civility to heart, for he was now insisting on referring to Lucien as Doctor Blake.

"Well, Chris," he said as he settled himself more firmly upon the little stool young Christopher had provided, calling him  _Chris_ for he felt that  _Christopher_ was a name much too big for a boy so small, felt that the lad standing beside him with that look of trepidation on his face was far too serious for a boy only nine years old, "I can't say that I have. But there's a first time for everything, isn't there?"

The cow made a soft sound of distress, turning her head to gaze back at Lucien with one huge, troubled brown eye.

"There, there, Bessie," Lucien said, reaching out to stroke the cow's flank with rather more confidence than he actually felt. "It'll be all right."

* * *

By the time Lucien and young Christopher came waltzing back into the kitchen, each of them swinging a pail of milk with dirt upon their trousers and smiles upon their faces, Jean and her children had finished plating up their breakfast. At the sound of footsteps she turned on her heel, and felt her breath catch in her throat at the sight of Lucien and her son standing side-by-side, each of them looking so proud at having accomplished their task.

He was handsome, still, though some of his confidence had left him, though he was thinner than she'd ever seen him before. The thought flitted through her mind, insidious and terrible, and she tried to will it away. Her husband was dead, and she had to face the onerous task of telling her children. She could not spare a moment to think about Lucien Blake, or the breadth of his shoulders or the remembered warmth of his gentle hands.

"Thank you, Christopher," Jean said warmly, reaching out to relieve her son of his burden and taking Lucien's while she was at it. "Go and wash your hands, and then come get something to eat."

Christopher followed her instructions silently, without a word of complaint, as he always did, and, as it always did, her son's somber nature worried her, just a little. Jack at least was argumentative and headstrong, possessed of all of his father's passion if lacking in his selflessness. Young Christopher was a world unto himself, and sometimes seemed too far away for Jean to reach. Her heart was already heavy, but the sight of his little feet carrying him away from her did nothing to soothe the ache in her chest.

"I suppose I ought to be getting on," Lucien said, smoothing his hand absentmindedly over the back of his hair. His stance was awkward and uncertain, and for some reason the sight of him so ill at ease helped Jean to relax, to find her breath once more. Yes, Lucien had told her that he would leave at first light, but he had been kind to her children, and he had milked a cow - a feat which Jean was certain he had never before attempted - and he had not spoken to his father in twelve years, and it was a long walk back to town, and he was far too skinny for Jean's liking.

"Go and wash your hands, Lucien," she told him softly. "And then have a bite to eat before you go."

His answering smile was brighter than the sun outside her kitchen window, and Jean turned away from him at once, not wanting him to see how much his joy pleased her.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: this is a tough one, y'all. I apologize in advance.

_3 January 1946_

It was a long walk back to Lydiard Street from the Beazley farm. Lucien had changed his clothes - he had tucked a clean shirt and a clean power of trousers in his soldier's pack - and left the children in their mother's capable hands, though there was something wild around the corners of Jean's eyes that tugged at his heartstrings, made him loath to leave her. It was not his place, he knew, to linger in that house, to intrude upon the family's private grief, much as he might have felt responsible for it, much as he had already grown to care for those three charming children, much as the sight of their mother's face inspired a strange sort of protectiveness in him. He did not know when he would next come back to that place and Jean had extended no invitation, and as he walked his heart was heavy at the thought that he might not see them - see her - again.

How could it be, he asked himself, that after twelve long years apart, after all the changes he had undergone, after marrying another woman, after having a child of his own, the sight of Jean Randall - Jean Beazley, now - could affect him so? She was beautiful, still, lovelier, even, for all the changes time had wrought in her, but it had been quite some time since Lucien Blake had been swayed by a beautiful face alone. There was a strength in her, a resilience, that called to his own battered spirit, a warmth in her when she gave him a place to sleep and served him breakfast alongside her children that he was not sure he deserved, and yet was so very grateful to have discovered.

But she was not his to care for, his to dream about, even for a moment. Her husband was dead and he had heard her weeping for that loss, had seen the ravages of grief upon her. And at the same time his wife was gone, taken by the sea, his child lost, waiting for him out there somewhere, maybe, and he could not spare a thought for Jean and her little family when his own was so shattered. He had to find out what had become of Li, had to do whatever it took to see his daughter again. His Li, his heart, his soul, his bright-eyed child with ribbons in her hair; each time he closed his eyes her little face swam before him, scared and sad as she had been on the day he'd shipped his girls off to Hong Kong in search of sanctuary. Mei Lin had been stoic, resigned to the choice they had made together, had kissed his cheek and started to walk away from him with her back straight and proud but Li, cradled in her mother's arms, had cried out, had reached out for her father, her eyes wide and scared and pleading as Mei Lin carried her away from him. The sound of his daughter crying out  _Papa, Papa_ echoed in his ears, loud and terrible, as if he could hear her calling for him across all the thousands of miles that separated them. Yes, Jean was lovely, and yes her children were sweet, and  _yes,_ he grieved for them, but Li had to be his only concern now.

And to find her he would first have to speak to his father, would have to try to bridge the gulf between them, if such a thing were possible. He needed a place to stay, he needed a way to earn some money, and most importantly he needed a mailbox where he could receive post from overseas, and the easiest way to obtain those things, he knew, would be to swallow his pride, and try to make amends. There was a certain irony in it, he supposed, that Jean was the cause for his falling out with his father, and that he had gone to her before speaking to Thomas. That wasn't something the elder Blake needed to know, however.

And so he trudged along, making the reverse journey, watching the fields and dirt tracks give way to the paved streets of Ballarat, claustrophobia nipping at him as the buildings sprung up around him, caged him in.  _Good old Ballarat,_ he thought grimly as he walked. The city was largely untouched by the horror of the war, and largely unchanged despite the length of his exile. His feet carried him along the pavements, down the old familiar road from the city center to the house he had once called home; there was the bus depot, and there the Colonist's club, there the police station and the barber shop and the cinema, and then, quite suddenly, he was surrounded by the splendor of the residential sector, fine old homes and well-manicured gardens replacing the capitalist industry of the of the businesses in the city center.

And then his dirty boots turned down Mycroft, and there up ahead there loomed his father's house. Lucien stood for a time on the opposite street corner, taking in the sloped roof of the house peeking above the hedgerows, the old, gnarled trees and the wide gravel drive. His father was in that house, somewhere, maybe seeing to a patient, maybe lingering over a cup of tea and his old pipe. His father who had disowned him for daring to spend time with a girl he found undesirable. And if Jean, beautiful, hardworking, industrious Jean had not been good enough for Thomas Blake's son, what would the old man think of the Chinese woman he'd married, of the little girl he'd fathered who bore her mother's foreign face? Would knowing the hardship his son had endured soften Thomas's heart, or would he remain steadfast and determined not to claim Lucien for his own?

Before he'd arrived at the fine old house on Mycroft Lucien had been certain that this was the best course of action, had been certain that he could stomach seeing his father again. Now, however, his resolve wavered. Was he really considering going to his father with his hat in hand before he'd ever even tried to make a go of it on his own? What would he do, should Thomas cast him out, say terrible things about his family, his beloved wife, his beloved daughter? Lucien did not entirely trust himself in polite company and he knew of no one more refined than Thomas Blake; should his father dare to rant and rave at him about his poor choices Lucien wasn't entirely certain that he would be able to measure his responses. The last thing he needed was to be locked away for striking his own father.

Perhaps his fears were running away with him, or perhaps now that the moment was upon him he was simply seizing upon excuses to stay away. Whatever the cause of it the result was the same; Lucien hung his head, and turned away.

* * *

Jack would not stop crying.

Lily's bottom lip trembled and tears sparkled in the corners of her eyes, but she held herself together, braver than any eleven year old had any right to be. When Jean broke the news her daughter had slipped beneath her arm, had nestled herself close to her mother and refused to move. Christopher sat still as a stone, his hands clasped together in his lap, his eyes cast down upon the floor. Jack, wild, reckless Jack, had fallen to pieces, and was even now curled in his mother's lap - though at seven years old he was almost too big to fit - and buried his face in her neck while he sobbed with all the brokenhearted fervor his little body could muster. Jean held him close, her nose pressed into those thick black curls so like his father's and tried to be strong for them, for these three babes who were her sole responsibility.

Three years Jean had sold them lies, had promised them a dream that would never come to be, and now she had shattered them, well and truly. It was the most difficult task Jean had ever faced, telling them that they would never see their father again. That Jack had taken it the hardest surprised her, even through her grief, for as the youngest of the children he had been only three when his father went off to war, and Jean had thought that he would hardly remember the man at all. Yet perhaps this was why he felt it so deeply, for he had no memories to cling to, only the whispered stories his mother had told him of a man strong and brave and kind, a man who loved him. Perhaps it was harder to lose a hero than to lose a father.

She had tried to break the news to them gently, had tried to tell them in the gentlest way.

_Doctor Blake came to see us for a reason,_ she'd told her children after she'd gathered them together on the battered old sofa where Lucien had spent the night.  _He knew your father, during the war,_  she'd explained, though she'd lost her voice for a moment then, overwhelmed by the thought of Lucien and Christopher in the same place, never knowing the extent of the ties that bound them. What had they talked about, she wondered, during the last hours of Christopher's life? Lucien had been shocked enough to see her, and she'd believed him when he told her that he had not known it was  _her_ husband he'd sworn his promise to.  _He was a doctor in the army, and he took care of your father after he was wounded._ Lucien had not told her how Christopher had died, exactly, and it was not until that very moment, struggling to keep her tears at bay, trying with all her might not to fall apart, not now, not yet, not where the children could see, that she realized how remiss she had been in not asking. Lucien had gone to his father's house, she knew, and she took some comfort from that fact, from knowing that she could find him again, when her grief was less raw, and ask him all the questions that burned within her now.  _I'm so sorry, my loves,_ she'd whispered then.  _Daddy's not coming home._

Lily, dear, sweet Lily, had understood what that meant before the boys did.

_Daddy's dead?_ She'd asked in a terrible, trembling voice, a voice that tore straight through Jean's heart, for though Christopher was the one who had raised her, who had loved her, who had lifted her onto his shoulders and marched her all around the farm while she laughed in glee, he was not her father. Lily's father was living still, a shell of his former self but possessed of a beating heart. There was little comfort in that thought.

_You cannot conceive, nor can I, the appalling strangeness of the mercy of God._ Jean had read that in a book she'd brought home from the library years before, and those words came back to her now as she struggled to find her way through this terrible moment, as she cradled her children close and tried to comfort them in their grief. Christopher was gone, and yet Lucien lived, and Jean did not know whether it mattered, could not see the road laid before her feet for the shadow that had fallen over her now. She could only wait, and pray, and weep in solitude, and hope that the answers would come to her with time.

When Jack's tears ran out at last he slumped in her arms, too exhausted to stand. Jean slowly rose from the sofa and laid him down in his little bed in the room he shared with Christopher, and then made her way back to the sitting room with a heart full of dread. Christopher was gone, when she returned, but Lily remained, scrubbing furiously at her cheeks with the palms of her hands.

"Where's your brother, love?" Jean asked softly, reaching out to run her hand over Lily's soft blonde curls, trying not to think of the man who had given them to her.

"Th-the barn," Lily answered, lifting her chin with a certain sense of resolution that would have filled Jean with pride on any other day.

Jean sighed and slumped onto the sofa beside Lily, folding her daughter into her arms at once. Of course he had gone to the barn; he often did, when he needed a moment's peace, when the noise and the chaos of his family overwhelmed him. He was a quiet boy, was Christopher, studious and thoughtful, and though the very idea of leaving him alone at a time like this made Jean feel like the worst mother in the world she resolved herself to give him some space, if that was what he needed. She would check on him soon, but for now she simply held Lily close, and tried to keep from shaking as the tears slipped down her cheeks silent as a frozen river.

* * *

The knock upon the door could not have been more unwelcome; Christopher and Lily had taken Jack outside, after his little nap, but through her kitchen window Jean could see that her children were not playing in the lush green grass. They were sitting, all three of them, very close together, and her heart ached at the sight. Perhaps she should have gone to them, should have sat alongside them, but they had chosen to retreat, and there was still the business of life to tend to. It was time for supper, but there was little enough in the way of food and Jean felt as if she'd never be hungry again, as if death had come for her, as well, and left her as no more than an empty vessel. Still, though, at the sound of a guest come to call she rallied, took a deep breath and marched off to see what fresh hell awaited her.

She never considered, even for a moment, that when she opened the door she would find Lucien Blake once more upon her doorstep, but there he stood just the same, his clothes dusty from the road, his cheeks and neck red from long hours spent in the sun. He carried his soldier's pack upon his back, still, but in his hands he held a basket Jean had never seen before.

"Lucien," Jean sighed, hating the tremor that shot through her at the sight of him, hating the little piece of her heart that rejoiced to know she did not have to be alone.

"I...I brought you something to eat," Lucien said, holding out his basket. "Just a roast," he answered quickly, his cheeks reddening still further under the incredulous look Jean gave him. "And some potatoes. And corn. And a pie from that shop on Lydiard Street."

* * *

Lucien was quite suddenly concerned that he had made a terrible mistake. After he'd left his father's house he'd ambled through town for a bit, had inquired after a room in both of the local hotels and balked at the price, shuffling away again with the knowledge that he had only a few pounds heavy on his mind. Perhaps it had been a mistake to come here, after all, he thought as he walked along; at least if he'd stayed with the army he would have been assured of a bed and an income. Now he had no notion of where to go next.

And then he had stumbled across the butcher's shop, and an idea had come to him. No, he did not have much money, but he was in need of food, and he knew of a widow a few miles outside of town whose larder was bare and whose mind would be distracted by matters far more serious than supper. He could spend a little at the butcher's and the greengrocer's, and carry it back to her; after all, wasn't that what friends did for one another, in times of calamity? Bring supper and comforting words to those in need? And so it was that his plan was born, and Lucien found himself purchasing all the makings of a satisfactory meal.

He wasn't sure what sort of reception he was expecting, upon arriving back at Jean's, but her wide-eyed silence frightened him. Perhaps he'd overstepped, in assuming she would be agreeable to seeing him so soon. At the moment, she was looking at him as if he'd grown a second head.

But then she took a deep breath and gave her own head a little shake, as if to clear her mind, before she reached out with a trembling hand to pull back the cloth that covered his little basket and peer inside. And then she spoke.

"Thank you, Lucien," she said softly. "This looks wonderful."

And then she burst into tears.


	9. Chapter 9

_3 January 1946_

It seemed only natural, when Jean began to weep, that he should put his burden down and fold her into his arms, and so he did. With his basket settled on the porch at his feet he reached out and drew her to him, and Jean went with him willingly, burying her face in the crook of his neck while her hands fisted in his shirt, held him tightly while her whole body trembled and shook with great wracking sobs. Lucien's mind went mercifully, inexplicably blank as he held her, as the soft scent of her hair and the faint smell of sweat and dirt and lush green grass that every farmer's wife wore for perfume overwhelmed his senses. She was warm and soft and small, and comforting her now offered him a welcome distraction from the morose thoughts of grief and guilt and loss and his father's derision that had troubled him throughout the day. Later he would ask himself what he was doing, why on earth he had taken such a liberty with a woman so recently bereaved, when he himself was freshly widowed and hurting, when he was the one who had divested her of her virtue and risked her reputation years before and was now gambling with propriety again, but none of it mattered when Jean's heart was hurting and he had two strong arms to cradle her close and offer her what meager protection he could from the darkness of the world beyond that little farmhouse.

He could not say with any certainty how long it took for Jean to bring herself back under control, how long he held her, how long she stood nestled in his embrace, but at long last she took a deep, shuddering breath and stepped back from him. Her eyes were red-rimmed and sparkling with tears, her face ravaged by grief, and yet it remained one of the single most beautiful faces he had ever seen, if only because it belonged to her, his Jean, the woman who had haunted his sleep for more than a decade now, the one woman he knew he could never claim for his own.

"I'm sorry," she breathed, clearly embarrassed as she brushed an imaginary wrinkle from her skirt and then reached up to pat her hair self-consciously.

"Don't be," Lucien told her earnestly. "You've had a very difficult day."

"I've had a very difficult year," Jean confessed. Quickly she bent and retrieved his basket, her movements neat and graceful, and the curve of her body caused a lump to form in Lucien's throat unbidden. She was beautiful, still, but beyond his reach now, he knew. Jean had made her choice long ago, had settled down with her Christopher, and it was for her Christopher she wept now, it was her Christopher she mourned, and Lucien knew he had no business intruding on her grief.

"Come inside, Lucien," she said softly, not waiting for an answer as she turned and led the way back to her little kitchen.

* * *

Jean was furious with herself, shocked at the way she had allowed her emotions to get the better of her. It was appalling, really, to think that she had gone to pieces like that, but Lucien did not look on her with pity or with disdain; his eyes were warm and kind, and in them she found a certain understanding that set her heart to racing, set her gut to churning. In truth she had wept because before his arrival she had not known how she was going to feed her children, and then he had come to her, this man who had spurned her, scorned her, broken her heart, and offered a solution to her problem so selflessly, and she was so confused and so grateful and so bloody tired that her strength had deserted her utterly. The moment had passed, however, some of her resolve returning as she entered her kitchen, her domain, and set the basket down upon the table.

"Will you eat with us?" she asked as she began unpacking the goods from his basket, surreptitiously watching him as he leaned uncertainly in the doorway.

"I'd like to," he answered, his tone almost bashful, and wasn't that strange, Jean thought to herself; Lucien had always been a cocky sort. Then again, God only knew what he had endured, during the war, how it might have changed him. "Can I help you with anything?"

"You can sit right there," Jean said, pointing imperiously towards an empty chair. "And rest your feet."

The only person Jean would allow to assist her in the kitchen was Lily; Christopher had always been more hindrance than help, and the boys were always underfoot, making a mess and in Jack's case complaining all the while, but Lily liked to help, liked to pretend she was grown up, just like her mum, and Jean treasured every moment she could spend alone with any one of her children. She imagined that Lucien, like Christopher, would be earnest but useless, and so he could best help her by staying out of the way. Once he was settled she turned her attention to the roast and cast about for a way to fill the silence.

"Did you speak to your father, then?" she asked, not turning to look at him.

A long, rather uncomfortable silence greeted her question.  _What's this?_ Jean wondered, but then Lucien was speaking before she was forced to prod him along.

"I didn't, actually," he said softly. "As you well know, my father has always disapproved of my...romantic entanglements," he continued, his tone a clear indicator that he was just as uncomfortable as Jean herself.  _As I well know?_ She wondered. In point of fact she knew nothing at all about Thomas Blake except that when young Christopher had taken ill as a baby the doctor had driven out to the farmhouse to treat him and refused to accept payment in return. They hardly travelled in the same social circles, and Jean could only recall having spoken to him a handful times, though he had always been kind to her. Lucien had complained rather bitterly about the man when they were young, but he had never said a word about any feelings Thomas might have had as regarded Lucien and his...liasions. Before she could question him on the point, however, he was speaking again, and Jean's heart was breaking anew. "I married a Chinese woman while I was stationed in Singapore. Mei Lin. I can't imagine my father would be pleased about that, and I'd rather avoid him altogether than listen to him…" his voice faded out, as if the strength had left him all at once, and Jean dared to steal a glance at him. His expression was haunted, his eyes wide and unseeing, and in his beautiful face Jean found a grief she recognized all too well.

"What happened to her?" she asked softly. "Mei Lin?" just speaking the woman's name aloud made her suddenly real to Jean; of course she had wondered, over the years, if Lucien had settled down, if he had found a woman who could do what Jean could not, and tame his wild heart, and now she had proof. He had found a woman, out there in the world, a woman he loved enough to marry, a woman who was surely everything that Jean was not, and the thought did not sit easily with her, even as she berated herself for feeling, even for a moment, as if she had any sort of claim over him.

"She died," he said, his voice cracking with emotion. "I sent them to Hong Kong, my wife and our little girl, and their ship was attacked by the Japanese."

_Our little girl._ Jean was grateful for the distraction of preparing their dinner, for it gave her an excuse to keep her back to him, to hide the sudden sheen of tears in her eyes. He had a daughter, then, had started his own little family, and though Jean knew she ought to take that as sure and certain proof that he no longer harbored any feelings for her, that he was utterly beyond her grasp, she could not help but think of  _their_  little girl, of her sweet Lily, could not help but think that Lucien's daughter would have been Lily's little sister. It was a terrible thought, and it cut her to the quick.

"My daughter, my Li, might still be alive," Lucien said, and from across the room Jean could hear how wrecked he sounded, how devastated, how desperately hopeful he was. In his shoes she knew that she would be half-mad with worry, and she did not fault him for the tremor of his voice.

"What will you do, Lucien?" she asked, wishing she could somehow help him, could somehow reunite his little family. Her own family was shattered, would likely never be put to rights, but perhaps there was a chance for Lucien to save his child, to find some absolution.

Behind her Lucien cleared his throat. "I have some contacts in China. I'll write to them, see if anyone can help me. And I'll need to find a job, find some way to pay for passage over there, eventually, if I can."

"I'm sure your father would help you, Lucien," Jean said at once, and the sharp, stilted silence that greeted her words told her all too plainly what he thought of this idea. "Whatever troubles you've had in the past, Lucien, you're still his  _son._ I know I don't know him well, but he's always been kind to me and the boys. Ask him, Lucien."

"He disowned me, Jean," Lucien told her softly. "He threw me out. He said I was no son of his."

* * *

Lucien could not understand why Jean seemed so shocked to learn that his father had cast him aside; he had told her all about it in his letter, so many years before. Perhaps the time had dulled her memories, or perhaps she had never taken note of his letter at all, or perhaps she thought that war and suffering might negate his father's decree; Lucien would never know, for before he could speak again the children came trooping in through the door, their shoulders slumped and heads bowed by grief.

"What's he doing here?" little Jack demanded at once, petulant and quarrelsome.

"Doctor Blake has brought us some supper," Jean said sternly. "And he will be our guest this evening."

"I hate him!" Jack cried, and with those words he turned and fled. At the cooktop Jean sighed, reaching out to run a tired hand across her face.

"I'll take care of it," young Christopher told his mother quickly before rushing off after his brother. Lucien watched them go, his heart aching; had Jean told them, then, that it was Lucien who had delivered the news of their father's death? He supposed she must have done, for Jack had been eager to talk to him just that morning.

"Can I help you, mummy?" Lily asked in a timid voice. Lucien watched as Jean held her hand out to her daughter, beckoned her over, kissed her forehead once before directing her as together they put the finishing touches on dinner. They were sweet together, Jean and Lily; the girl had something of her mother in her face, the high, sharp cheekbones, the shape of her lips, but her eyes were blue and fierce, eyes he supposed she must have gotten from her father. And that hair, long and curly and the shade of burnt copper; the boys' hair was curly, too, he'd seen, but dark like Jean's. He'd only known Christopher Senior for such a short time, and the years had dulled his memory of the man, but he imagined he could see something of him in those children Jean loved so deeply, and he couldn't help but be grateful for the opportunity to be surrounded by a family once again, even if it was not his own. He could not watch his own daughter standing beside her mother in the kitchen, but Jean and Lily painted a sweet picture, a balm to his weary soul.

* * *

Dinner was an awkward affair; Jack was sullen and Christopher was quiet, and between them Jean and Lucien and Lily could find nothing to discuss save the quality of the roast and the deliciousness of the pie. It came as a relief, really, when Jean announced that the children should wash up and get ready for bed.

"Let me handle the washing up, Jean," Lucien said when they were alone again, when Jean looked at the pile of dirty dishes and sighed disconsolately. "You go, be with your children. I think I remember where everything goes."

For a moment she stared at him, eyes narrowed as if trying to decide whether he could be trusted, but then finally she gave him a curt little nod and followed in her children's footsteps.

Alone at last, Lucien heaved a great, weary sigh, and set about cleaning up after their meal.

* * *

It took some time, to get the children all settled. Lily had her own room, a tiny addition Christopher had added on to the back of the house when it got to be too much, sharing two bedrooms between four people. She curled amongst her blankets and accepted her mother's goodnight kiss without complaint, but the boys were rather more troublesome. Well, Jack was. Christopher had turned his back on her the moment he was in bed, but Jack had clung to her, had begun to cry again, and nothing would calm him short of Jean crawling into his narrow beside him, folding him in her arms and singing to him softly until he fell asleep. She held him for a little while, stroking his unruly curls, listening to his soft breaths, wondering what fresh hell the morning would bring for them, wondering why fate had been so cruel, and stolen her children's father away from them. It wasn't right, it wasn't fair, and Jean could hardly spare a moment for her own grief as she struggled to guide the little ones through.

At last she rose, however, and made her way through the house on silent feet to check on Lucien's progress in the kitchen. Before she made it that far, however, the dim light of a lamp glowing in the sitting room drew her attention, and she stepped inside, quite surprised to find Lucien sitting on the sofa with his hands on his knees and a bottle of wine on the low table beside him.

"Lucien?" she asked softly.

At the sound of her voice he jumped as if she'd struck him, but he relaxed the moment he saw her face.

"I bought a little something extra, for us," he said, gesturing towards the bottle. Jean stepped further into the room, and as she did she realized that he'd already poured two glasses. It had been quite a long time since Jean had had alcohol of any sort, having not had the money to spend on such a vice, and though she was somewhat troubled by the gesture she realized quite suddenly there was nothing she wanted so much as to sit and rest her feet and have a glass of wine with a friend.

"You didn't need to do all this, Lucien," she told him softly. The light was dim, the air warm and close, and Jean did not trust herself to join him on the sofa, so she took the glass he offered her and folded herself into the armchair opposite him, the chair that had been Christopher's favorite.

"I wanted to. I wanted to say thank you, for giving me a place to sleep. For being so kind to me when you had every reason not to be."

Jean hummed, and took a sip of her wine. As she saw it she had done no more than what was courteous, when an old friend came to call, even if that friend had left her cold and lonely with a baby in her belly, stolen her heart and offered her nothing in return, changed the course of her whole life forever.  _It's a funny old world,_ she thought as she looked at him, for in that moment she realized that she had never once even considered turning him away. Perhaps she should have, but she didn't, and she didn't quite know what to make of that.

"What will you do, Lucien?" she asked him again.

In response he only shook his head. "What about you, Jean? Will you keep the farm?"

She sighed, took another sip of wine, already feeling a blush rising in her cheeks, though that might have had more to do with the warmth of the night and the company than anything else. "I don't know," she confessed in a small voice. "This is good land, Lucien. The soil is rich, the yield is good. But with so many men gone off to war, I couldn't find anyone to help me with it. And by the time they started to come home, I didn't have the money to pay workers. I've sold all but our two milk cows, and I don't have money to buy any more. The chickens we have lay enough eggs for us, but I'll need quite a few more if I'm going to sell them. We...I owe more than I can pay. But I don't want to sell. This is Christopher's farm. This was his dream." As she spoke her voice trembled, and then cracked as she spoke her husband's name, a single tear slipping past her though she tried her hardest to hold it in.  _Oh, Christopher._ Her dear, sweet man, that man who had given up everything for her, who had become the solid foundation of this life she loved so much, that man she had loved so dearly, if not in the way that he deserved. Christopher was  _gone,_ and Jean knew she had to do what was best for her family, but giving up on the farm felt rather like giving up on  _him,_  and she couldn't bring herself to do that. Not now, not after everything.

"Jean," Lucien said slowly, leaning towards her in the darkness. "What would you need, to make this place profitable again?"

"One good yield," she said, taking a deep breath. "This time of year we'd plant lettuce, beans, sweetcorn. A few cows to breed. Maybe more chickens, and maybe I could pull in some work sewing, or baking to sell at the market. The bank may be lenient, for a time, when they find out that Christopher's...gone."

Across the room Lucien's eyes were shining at her, the way they did in the old days when he got some grand idea, and Jean realized what he was going to say before he spoke.

"Jean, I need a place to stay. I need to send some letters, and I need to be settled while I wait for answers. I will go and speak to my father tomorrow, but even if he is as understanding as you seem to think he might be, I have no desire to stay in that house again. Let me help you, Jean. I could help with the planting, and the harvest, and I might be able to take a few odd jobs, make a little bit of money to help with the livestock. I'll sleep in the barn, Jean. I'll do whatever you say. Let me help you."

* * *

It was madness, he knew. Lucien didn't know the first thing about farming, but his head was spinning at the thought of his plan. It seemed the best way to solve all their problems in one fell swoop; Lucien needed a mailbox, and Jean needed a pair of strong arms to help with the farm. He could take instruction well - he'd already learned how to milk a cow, after all - and if his father were willing to help pay for some of his expenses, it might be that they could save Jean's farm. And then when word came back from China, when he knew for sure what had become of his little girl, he might be in a position to go and collect her, to salvage his little family. It was everything he wanted, tied up with a little bow.

The question was, of course, whether Jean would agree.


	10. Chapter 10

_14 January 1946_

"Good morning, Doctor Blake," a solemn voice murmured near Lucien's ear.

With a groan Lucien rolled to the side and opened his eyes, fighting a childish urge to tug his thin blanket up and over his head, to block out the voice and the dawning of a new day. He was tired, and his whole body ached from his toes to his hairline, but this was the path he had chosen, and he knew he could not run from it. Nor could he take out his aches and pains and peevish mood on the lad who'd come to wake him.

"Good morning, Mister Beazley," he said instead, opening his eyes with some difficulty and finding himself looking square into young Christopher's face.

Lucien was lying on his makeshift bed in the back of the barn, the place he now called home. When Jean had - rather hesitantly - agreed to accept his help, Lucien had been insistent that he could not stay in the house. While he pointed out to Jean that it would be rather improper, should people discover that the recently widowed Mrs. Beazley had opened her home to the equally widowed Lucien Blake, gossip was not his only reason for putting distance between himself and Jean. The house was  _hers,_ the home she had made with the husband she loved, the place where she raised her children, and Lucien knew it was not meant for him. And besides, the farmhouse was cramped and small, and Lucien did not do well in tight spaces. The barn was much more suited to his taste, with its high vaulted ceiling and the vast door he could leave wide open to let in the summer breeze. He needed a place of his own, a place where he could be tormented by nightmares without disturbing his hosts, a place where he could hide a bottle of whiskey beneath his bed and not draw any unwanted questions, a place where he could sit and weep uninterrupted in the darkness when the loss of his beloved wife and daughter became too much to bear.

With young Christopher's help he had constructed a makeshift bed made from pallets, and Jean had with a bit of ingenious sewing made him a mattress of sorts from scrap cloth and dried hay. It was nowhere near as fine as the bed he'd had in Singapore before the war, but it was altogether more comfortable than the cot where he'd slept while he was held prisoner in Changi, and Lucien was grateful for it.

"And how are you this fine day?" Lucien asked winsomely as he rolled to his feet at last, trying not to wince at the protestations of his exhausted limbs. Farming was hard, hot, never-ending work, he'd discovered, and he'd yet to become fully adjusted to the gruesome pace. He never once complained, however, for Jean never did, and he was determined that if she could endure, he would as well.

"Very well, thank you," young Christopher said seriously as he fell into step beside Lucien. "And you, Doctor Blake?"

"Oh, fit as a fiddle, I'd say," Lucien lied blandly.

Life on the farm of necessity followed a certain routine, and Lucien - not yet fully recovered from the habits of a soldier's life - had taken to it quickly. Every morning at first light young Christopher came to wake him, and together they would cross the pasture to milk the cows while Jack and Lily collected eggs from the henhouse and Jean started work on breakfast.

"Mum said she has to go to the bank today," young Christopher said as they trudged along, a hint of concern in his voice.

For a moment Lucien was silent, mulling over how best to respond to the boy. Christopher was a strange lad, quiet and watchful, wise beyond his nine years. Likely he was well aware of his family's dire financial straits, no matter how hard Jean tried to hide the extent of their woes. The bank manager's decision today would be the final word on whether their plan would go forward or if Jean would have to sell the farm, but Lucien did not want to tell Christopher just how important this meeting would be, did not want the lad to spend the whole day fretting about his family's future when he should have been focused on his schoolwork. In truth, Lucien was worried enough for the both of them; he had sunk quite a bit of money into the farm, buying seed and fixing the equipment and giving Jean more than enough to restock her larder and keep the lot of them fed. It would be quite some time before they saw the return on that investment, but with the tomatoes and the apples coming in, they had enough to keep them afloat for a little while.

"She mentioned that to me," he said lightly as they reached their destination, the two cows watching them warily from their position by the fence line. "It's nothing too monumental, I don't think."

Christopher seemed satisfied with that, and did not speak again until their task was finished and they went marching off back to the house. They stopped by the water trough behind the barn so Lucien could rinse himself off quickly, splashing water over his neck and chest. The nights were warm and he often slept bare-chested, and he much preferred to wait until after the milking was done before putting on his shirt and making his way into the farmhouse for breakfast.

"She also said we're not to tell anyone that you're staying in the barn," Christopher told him, watching him with those thoughtful grey eyes so like his mother's.

Again Lucien took his time answering as he toweled off his upper half, thinking hard.

"Well," he said at last, "that's her decision. You know how your mother feels about gossip. Some people might think it strange, that I'm staying here and not in town. But that's nobody else's business."

"I'm glad you're here," Christopher said firmly. They were on the move again; Lucien ducked into the barn to retrieve a clean shirt - one of Christopher Senior's, he was sure, though Jean had not told him where exactly she had procured the clothes she'd handed to him with trembling hands.

"Me, too, Chris," he said as their feet turned towards the house, and breakfast. "Me, too."

* * *

The rooster had woken Jean, as he always did, before the sun's first rays slipped through her bedroom. And, as she had done every morning for two weeks now, she lingered in bed for a time, weeping. They were quite tears, now, no longer the great, wracking sobs that had struck her when she first learned what had become of her husband. They did not last quite as long as they had done, in the beginning, but still each morning she woke to an empty bed, knowing there was no hope of Christopher ever coming back to her, no hope of her ever having the chance to say all the words that had built up in her heart over the last three years without him, and each morning she found herself quite overcome with grief. It was hardest in the darkness, she'd found; during the daylight hours there was so much to do, with two crops coming in and three to plant and three children and a somewhat hapless farmhand to feed and manage. After sundown and before sunup, when her hands were idle, when the house was still, grief and guilt came from her, and she could find no escape.

She wept for her children, wept for the part she had played in the argument that had sent Christopher off to war, wept for her empty bed, wept for Lucien's dead wife and his daughter whose fate was still so uncertain. She wept for the predicament she found herself in, feeding Lucien three meals a day, watching him laugh with her children, watching him teasing Lily, and knowing she could never speak the truth aloud. They had made their choices, Jean and Lucien; she had chosen Christopher, and he had chosen Mei Lin, and now they were both lost, stuck in the same orbit and yet separated by the vast chasm that time had torn between them. Jean had been grateful, when Lucien insisted he sleep in the barn; she did not want him too close to her, did not want him there to witness the shambles of her life. He worked for her, and she fed him, and neither of them could ask more from the other than what they had already given.

The sun rose and so did Jean, slipping through the house to wake her sleeping children. Once they were dressed and on their feet, she took up her position in the kitchen, making eggs and sausages and toast and tea for the lot of them. And as she worked the pain of her grief subsided, as it always did, numbed by the sounds of her children's voices and the warmth of the early morning sun.

"Good morning, Mrs. Beazely," Lucien said as he and young Christopher arrived with milk pails in hand. As she did every morning Jean relieved them of their burdens and nodded towards the table where Jack and Lily were already eating.

"Eat your breakfast while it's still warm, Doctor Blake," she answered him. Jean never called him by his given name when the children were around; it wouldn't be proper, she thought, for them to call him  _Lucien,_ and the best way she knew of to get them to call him by his title was to use it herself. So far only young Christopher had taken her instruction to heart, however, as Lily took great delight in speaking to  _Lucien,_ and Jack still refused to acknowledge his presence. It would seem her youngest son blamed Lucien for what had befallen Christopher, and nothing Jean could say to him would soothe him.

_Give him time,_ she thought as she watched them, Lucien sitting down to tuck into his meal while Lily chattered about school and Jack scowled and young Christopher remained still and quiet, as ever.  _They all just need some time._

"Will you be all right on your own today, Doctor Blake?" she asked him as she stowed the milk away, turning back to take her place at the head of the table. Privately, she had her doubts about the wisdom of leaving Lucien on his own; he meant well, and he could follow instructions, but he did not know the first thing about farming, and it showed in everything he did, in the tender flesh of his palms, still red and raw, not yet calloused as Jean's own hands were, as Christopher's had been.

"Oh, I think I can manage," he told her around a mouthful of eggs. "Tomatoes in the morning, and apples in the afternoon."

"Mark Dempster's coming 'round tomorrow with the truck," she reminded him. They'd keep a fair bit of the crop for themselves, and the rest would be sold to the greengrocer in town. They had only a few rows of tomatoes, and only a few little apple trees, but what little they'd bring in would go a long way towards paying off Jean's debts, and she was grateful for Lucien's help, and for Mark Dempster's willingness to offer them the use of his truck.

"We'll be ready," Lucien said confidently, offering her one of those lopsided smiles of his.

Despite herself Jean smiled back, trying to hide her expression behind the rim of her teacup. It was so  _nice_ , having another adult to speak to, having someone to help around the farm, having a reason to hope that perhaps her little family could be restored from the brink of calamity. It was nice to have someone there, to know that even if he was sleeping out in the barn there was someone out there who understood what she was going through, her grief and her uncertainty, for he was caught in the same quagmire himself. And it was nice, to look across the table, and see a smiling face. Even if that face belonged to Lucien Blake.

"I really must thank your father," Jean mused after a moment. "Without his help I'm not sure what we would have done."

* * *

Lucien's heart sank at Jean's words, but he spoke quickly, trying to appear nonchalant. "Please don't say anything to him, you know what he's like. He doesn't want to draw attention when he does something so uncharacteristically charitable."

Jean hummed and sipped her tea and let the moment pass, and in the resultant silence Lucien heaved a sigh of relief.

In point of fact, Lucien still had yet to speak to his father. Wounded pride and doubts and anger kept him from going to the man with his hat in hand; Lucien had survived the last twelve years without help of any sort of from that old bastard, and he wasn't about to start groveling now. He had promised to help Jean with the farm, however, and he had known that to do that would require funds, and so he had done the only thing he could think of.

He had set out for Ballarat, promising Jean that he would speak to Thomas, when in actuality his feet carried him to the local pawnshop. Lucien owned only one thing of value in the world, a pretty bauble he had been carrying in his pocket the day the Japanese invaded Singapore. He had found it in a shop and purchased it for his wife, thinking fond thoughts of their reunion, of sweeping her into his arms, of kissing her soundly, of holding his little girl close, and though it was dreadfully expensive he had purchased it anyway. Jade and diamonds and silver, it was a beautiful brooch in the shape of a flower, and he knew that Mei Lin, with her taste for the finer things in life, would treasure it. And then hell had rained down from above, and for days on end he had been caught in terror and misery and horror the likes of which he never could have imagined before that day. Through it all, somehow, miraculously, the brooch had remained unscathed, until the day they marched his unit through the gates of Selarang. That first night Lucien had snuck out of his bunk and buried his treasure in the dirt just beside the door of the barracks house, wrapped in a shirt he'd stolen from a fallen comrade. For three long years it lay beneath the dirt, a whispered promise of what would be, if only Lucien were freed from that hell. Three long years he'd spent thinking of it, thinking of Mei Lin, of Li, surviving on hope alone. And then the Poms came marching through the gates and he'd dug it up at once, tucking it into his pocket alongside Christopher Beazley's letter.

The day he learned of Mei Lin's death he'd very nearly thrown it away. What was the point, he'd asked himself as he wept, of holding onto such hope, of holding on to a present meant for the woman he loved, when his wife was dead and gone? Still, though, he couldn't quite seem to part with it. It was meant for his wife, and though she might never have it, the little brooch had survived against all odds, and he could not bring himself to so carelessly toss it aside.

Faced with the choice between selling it or speaking to his father, however, Lucien had found himself backed into a corner. He had pawned it, had accepted the little slip the man behind the counter had given him - along with a paltry sum that while more than sufficient to keep the farm running was less than half what Lucien had paid for it - and slunk away, consoling himself with the knowledge that he had six months to earn enough money to buy it back. How on earth he was going to do that he had no idea, but he was determined both to rescue the brooch and keep the unsavory truth from Jean.

It would seem that she was content with his answer, that she would not push the subject of his father any further, and so Lucien kept his mouth shut, and finished his breakfast in silence.


	11. Chapter 11

_26 January 1946_

"Please, can I go with Lucien, please, mama,  _please?"_ Lily begged, blue eyes wide and pleading, bottom lip stuck out in that adorable pout. She only ever called Jean  _mama_ when she wanted something, perhaps because despite only being eleven she was well aware that all it took for her to get her way was a well-placed  _please, mama_  and the batting of those thick eyelashes. Jean had never been able to deny her girl anything, particularly not when she looked at her that way. She tried to tell herself that it had nothing to do with the fact that those moments were when Lily resembled Lucien the most; Jean was determined to put all thoughts of their previous dalliance from her mind, and so far she had more or less succeeded.

"Oh, I'm sure Doctor Blake doesn't need you underfoot," Jean said, adjusting her grip on the basket balanced on her hip.

The Beazley family - and Lucien - had ventured out from the farm to attend the fair. Oh, Jean had no livestock to show and what they'd managed to collect of the spring harvest had already been sold, but she was considering bringing home a few more chickens and a rooster as well, and perhaps another cow, if she could find one at a reasonable price. The basket she carried was full of odds and ends, little pieces the five of them had collected as they meandered from stall to stall, admiring the handmade goods and - in Jack's case - the fresh-baked treats. The basket also contained the details of a few local ladies who, delighted to see Jean somewhere that wasn't church, had insisted they had need of her sewing skills. Though they were no longer in dire straits, having received a reprieve from the bank upon news of Christopher's death and having brought in a fair bit of cash thanks to Lucien's help, but money was still tight, and Jean was willing to do just about anything to ease the strain. She had never been above doing bit of seamstress work, and she was grateful for the prospect now.

"I would be delighted to take Lily with me, Mrs. Beazley," Lucien told her winsomely. He looked quite nice today, she thought, in a crisp white shirt and a fine new hat. That was something else for which Jean was grateful; Lucien refused to accept anything more than paltry payment for his work on the farm, saying that a place to sleep and three meals a day was more than enough, but it would seem that Thomas was looking after him, given that he had money enough to pay for a new shirt and a new hat and all those letters he kept mailing to China. And to pay for the whiskey bottle he kept beneath his makeshift bed, the bottle he thought Jean knew nothing about. So long as he was ready to work each morning and courteous to the children Jean had decided not to mention his drinking, but it worried her, just a bit, to think about him sitting up in the barn of an evening, drinking himself to sleep. Still, everyone deals with grief in different ways, she knew. At least he looked significantly healthier than he had done when he arrived on her doorstep; his skin was tanned and his broad frame was slowly filling out, muscle building as he worked his hands to the bone on the farm, his ribs no longer showing beneath three weeks' worth of decent meals.

"If you're sure it's no trouble," Jean said slowly. She wasn't worried about Lucien looking after Lily; he had shown himself to be a trustworthy sort, working hard without complaint and playing with the children and sometimes, in the quiet of an evening after they'd gone to bed, telling Jean stories of his own little girl. Lucien missed his little Li, she knew, and worried for her every moment of the day, and it sometimes seemed as if he drew comfort from having Lily around. This gave Jean no comfort at all, however, for she had determined that it would be best for all parties involved if no one ever learned of Lucien's connection to her daughter. But who could look upon them, with their smiling blue eyes and soft blonde curls, and not begin to guess at the secret Jean guarded so fiercely? The thought absolutely terrified her, and yet she could think of no good reason to deny Lily's request. Lucien had spotted a stall selling leather goods and made some noises about needing a new belt and a wallet as well, and Jean would have trouble enough keeping an eye on the boys while she went to see about the chickens.

"No trouble at all," Lucien said earnestly. "We'll only be a few minutes, and then we can meet you by the chickens."

"All right, then," Jean agreed at last. Lily crowed delightedly and took Lucien by the hand, tugging him towards the line of stalls to their right. Lucien shot her a sheepish look before following after the little girl, and Jean watched them go, her heart suddenly heavy in her chest, though she could not say exactly why.

* * *

"Lucien," Lily said as they walked along, "are you really a doctor?"

Lucien took a moment to smile down at her, at the waterfall of her copper curls held back from her face by a bright pink ribbon, the tip of her nose turning pink in the sun, her eyes wide and inquisitive and taking in everything with a child's sense of wonder. Over the last few weeks Lucien had grown quite fond of all the Beazley children and would never presume to favor one over the others - even if young Jack was still quite short with him - but he had a particularly soft spot in his heart for Lily, so close in age to his own daughter. Sometimes as he watched her, playing with her brothers or helping her mother in the kitchen, he couldn't help but wonder if the two girls would have been friends, had their paths ever crossed, couldn't help but imagine the pair of them giggling together in the sitting room. It was a beautiful dream, but he had only just sent out his first round of letters, and he knew it would be weeks before he had any answers regarding the fate of his own child. That uncertainty kept him awake most nights, fretting, terrified, consumed by guilt, but it was a beautiful sunlit Saturday afternoon, and Lily was holding his hand, and he was determined not to be maudlin.

"I am," he answered her.

"Then why are you working on our farm? Why don't you work for the hospital, or your father?"

For a moment it felt as if a dark cloud had passed over his heart. He had tried his best not to lie to the children, and not lie to their mother more often than was needful, but having been asked such a direct question he felt he had little other choice. The truth was he had chosen not to work for the hospital or his father because he did not want his father to know that he was back in Ballarat, did not want to see the man, did not want to speak to him. And he had not gone to Melbourne or any other city looking for work as a doctor for an almost equally terrible reason.

Yes, he wanted to help Jean, and  _yes,_ he felt somewhat responsible for her fate, given that he was the one who'd delivered the news that had so broken her heart, but he had not taken a position as a doctor because he was not entirely sure that he could. His hands began to shake whenever he found himself in a room with a closed door, and the very thought of once more cutting into the flesh of another person, of watching even one more poor sod slip away beneath his hands, left him sick to his stomach and weak in the knees. He had seen so much, endured so much, lost so much, and he was not sure that he would be able to hold himself together, should he step once more into a world full of blood and pain and loss. The part of him that had made him a good doctor, arrogant and cool under pressure, cold and calculating when the moment called for it, had been completely buried beneath grief and guilt and fear. Lucien wasn't sure he would ever be that man again.

But he had to find a way to earn some money, so every Tuesday and Saturday he told Jean he was going to see his father when in fact he was making the trek to Mark Dempster's farm, to do whatever work needed doing and collect a few bills in exchange. As he didn't have to pay for lodging or food that money, combined with the little he allowed Jean to pay him, was adding up, slowly but surely. He had a little in his pocket and a bit more in a jar in the barn, saving up to buy passage to China the moment he learned what had become of Li. That was his plan, and he was determined to stick with it.

At present, however, he had to deal with Lily's questions.

"Well," he said slowly, "my father doesn't need any help. He can manage his patients on his own. And I don't work in the hospital because I'd rather be on the farm with you. Why would I want to work in a stinky hospital when I could be out in the sunshine?"

Lily giggled, and the sound of it lifted his spirits immensely. "I'd rather be in a hospital than mending fences or picking tomatoes," she told him with all the certainty of youth.

"Maybe you will one day, then," Lucien answered her. "Maybe you'll be a nurse, or go to university and become a doctor like me."

The little girl stopped dead in her tracks and looked up at him as if the thought had never before occurred to her, and now meant more to her than anything else in the world. "Maybe I will," she said.

* * *

"I still can't believe you did that," Jean sighed as they collapsed in the sitting room together, Jean in the armchair and Lucien sprawled across the sofa. Their afternoon at the fair was done and the children were now in bed, and Jean and Lucien were enjoying a nightcap together, as they did most every Saturday night.

"She made that face," Lucien protested. "You know the one. How could I say no?"

"So you brought home a goat?" Jean chided him gently, smiling all the while. When Lucien and Lily had rejoined them by the chickens Lily had been leading a little goat by a rope, her smile brighter than the sun overhead, and Lucien had simply lifted his hands in a gesture of defeat. To mollify the boys - who were terribly jealous of their sister's new prize - Lucien had also purchased two rabbits, and come home with his pockets empty and his arms full. They'd spent the evening constructing a little hutch for the rabbits and a little pen for the goat, and though all three children had assured their mother they would look after their new charges, Jean knew it would be she and Lucien who did the brunt of the work. She couldn't begrudge them their animals, however, for her great hound Max was currently lounging at her feet, and she remembered all too well the day when she - heavily pregnant with Jack and prone to sobbing at the slightest provocation - had begged Christopher to let her bring the little puppy home. As Lucien tried to defend himself she reached down and scratched Max behind the ears with her free hand, a glass of sherry cradled in the other.

"It might be nice to have him around," Lucien grumbled. "And we can breed the rabbits and sell the offspring, that'll be something."

"And what do you think the boys will say the first time we sell one of them for someone's rabbit stew?"

The mood in the room shifted suddenly; she could see the furrow forming over Lucien's brow, and felt the weight of grief settling once more in her heart. She hadn't intended it, had been quite enjoying their playful conversation, and she was rather disappointed with how quickly things had run sour between them. It happened all too often; a casual word would remind one or the other of them just how much they had lost, just how tragic were the circumstances that had brought them back together, and suddenly their smiles would fade, and the sadness would return.

_Just when things were going so well,_ Jean though morosely. They'd had a wonderful day at the fair, and all three of the little ones had seemed happy, for the first time in a month. Lucien's smiles had been quick and easy, and Jean had actually laughed. Still, though, they could not seem to outrun their circumstances. Everywhere she turned Jean was reminded of Christopher, and the haunted look in Lucien's eyes told her that he must have felt the same about his dear wife. Once again, Jean found herself wondering about Lucien's little family, wondering what sort of woman had been beautiful enough, clever enough,  _special_ enough to not only capture his attention and his affection, but to keep him, to hold sway over him still.

"We kept rabbits, in Singapore," Lucien told her slowly. "Most of them were half wild, but there was one little one that didn't mind being held. Li used to love to sit in the garden with him. I remember there was this tree…" his voice faded out, and he lifted his glass of whiskey to his lips with a trembling hand to cover the sound of his sorrow.

"You'll hear something soon, Lucien," Jean murmured into the stillness between them. In truth she had no idea how long it would take for a letter to reach Hong Kong and the answer to be delivered, but she felt she ought to say something, anything to reassure him. It must have been torture for him, stuck in Australia, never knowing what had befallen his daughter; Jean knew that if it were one of her own children she would have been half-mad with grief. For a moment, a single, frozen instant, she wanted to reach out and place her hand upon his thigh, to offer him comfort. Propriety and guilt stayed her hand; she had her own grief to worry about, and she knew she could not allow herself to become too concerned with Lucien.

In some ways, she rather thought it was easier for her; Christopher had been gone from her side for so long, and she had endured three years of silence and worry between his last letter and Lucien's arrival on her doorstep. She had grown accustomed to falling asleep alone, and somewhere, in a dark corner of her heart where she feared to tread, she had known that he was gone. Three years was too long a time, with no word of any sort, for any other explanation. Though it hurt to have what little hope remained to her stolen at last, at least she  _knew_ , at least she had already grown accustomed to the hole in her life where Christopher used to be. Lucien was still learning to live with his own loss, and he still had so many questions left to answer.

"You're right, of course," he said after a time. "Thank you, Jean."

They finished their drinks in silence, and then as one they rose from their chairs.

"Sleep well, Lucien," Jean murmured as she reached out to take his glass.

"And you, Jean," he answered.

Without another word he left her, and Jean stood for a time rooted to the spot, thinking of grief, and loss, everything that could have been and everything that never would be.


	12. Chapter 12

_27 February 1946_

It was a warm Wednesday afternoon, not boiling hot though the sun overhead was more than enough to draw beads of sweat to Lucien's brow as he dutifully followed the fenceline in the cow pasture, counting off his steps and looking for breaks to mend. Fluffy clouds scuttled across a sapphire sky, but there was little warmth in Lucien's heart at the moment, and he was grateful for a task that he could complete in solitude, grateful for the silence that surrounded him, broken only by the calling of the birds overhead.

It had been eight weeks since he had arrived at the Beazley farm, eight weeks since he began to work for Jean, saving what little money he could and furiously writing letters to everyone he could think of, trying to find some answer as regarded his family. The first response had arrived the day before, had been waiting for him beneath the plate at his customary seat at Jean's kitchen table. After a long day working for Mark Dempster Lucien had stashed his pay in the jar beneath his bed and washed the sweat from his body before joining the family for dinner, lying through his teeth when Jean asked after his father. He could not expect this charade to continue indefinitely, he knew, but so far Jean had not learned the truth, and he was not about to tell her. The letter she'd tucked away for him had immediately diverted his mind from thoughts of his father and his own lies, but he had forced himself to wait, to eat his food and speak kindly to the children and desperately try to avoid Jean's sympathetic gaze. It was a letter to be read in private, and so the moment the washing up was done he had excused himself and rushed off to the barn, sitting on the edge of his makeshift bed and tearing the letter open at once.

The letter had come from Derek, who was currently in Hong Kong. After a perfunctory greeting Derek confirmed what Lucien had already suspected, that Mei Lin's ship had been attacked by the Japanese, the only survivors being six small children on a life raft.

 _It's difficult to say with any certainty,_ Derek had written,  _but there were two little Chinese girls around Li's age. No one knows where they were sent, and there's no written record of any of them, but I spoke to a soldier who remembered discovering them. He seemed fairly certain they'd been taken to an orphanage in the city. I have spoken to a contact in the local government, and provided him with your information. I'll be leaving Hong Kong in a week, but you can expect a response from him soon. I hope you're well, Lucien._

That was all. The slimmest possible hope; Lucien recalled that the ship his family had boarded was loaded down with women and children, and yet only six of those children had survived. What were the chances, he asked himself, that one of those children was his own daughter?  _Two little Chinese girls,_ Derek had written; his daughter had grown up speaking English at home, but Lucien knew that any British soldier having just plucked six wailing children from the sea would have taken note of their faces, their races, more than anything else, and little Li did favor her mother.

He wished the news had brought him more joy, but he found himself full of sorrow instead, thinking of all those who had been lost, thinking how very unlikely it was that Li was one of those little girls. And even if she were, Derek had confirmed that his wife was gone, lost to the sea. Mei Lin, proud and proper, with her wicked smile and her wealth of long, dark hair; that woman who had ensnared him, who had shared his bed and his burdens, who had given him the greatest gift of his life in the form of their little daughter, was lost to him forever. He would never see her again, would never be able to fall at her feet and beg her forgiveness for sending her away, would never again hold her close and smell the soft scent of jasmine that floated all around her. Never again would he turn over in the night and draw her into his arms, feel the softness of her skin beneath his fingertips, hear her gentle voice offering him her wise counsel. Mei Lin was gone, and a piece of his heart with her.

It was beyond cruel, beyond tragic, that in trying to save his family he had doomed them.  _There is many a boy today who looks on war as all glory, but, boys, it is all Hell._ Lucien had read those words in a book once, and they came back to him now, bitter and tinged with sorrow. As a young man he had joined the army full of hope, certain that he was making a better life for himself, certain that it would be hard work but a bit of fun as well, and that in the end he would be better for it. He knew better, now. War had taken everything from him, his humanity, his dignity, his family; he had seen the ravaged bodies of women and children lying in the dirt alongside bloodied soldiers, had heard the desperate sound of Jean's boundless grief at the loss of her husband, carried within his own heart an endless howling cavern of loss. Over the last few years war had ravaged the earth, from the fields of France to the jungles of Malaya to the arid deserts of North Africa, and he knew that his was just one of a million shattered families, struggling to find their way in the aftermath.  _Yes, war is hell,_ he thought,  _but no one ever said peace would be so hard to bear._

So he walked, and brooded, and here and there stopped to inspect the fenceline, thinking of his grief and his rage and the unfairness of the world around him.

* * *

"Mrs. Beazley," Doctor Blake said, shock evident in his tone, the ends of his great mustache twitching as he took in the sight of Jean standing on his doorstep in her very best dress. "What a pleasant surprise."

"I hope I'm not interrupting anything," Jean answered with a smile. She had not spoken to Doctor Blake often; she'd delivered all three of her children at home, but it was Doctor King who had come to check in on her after, and they had all of them been relatively healthy these last few years. She'd had little need of a doctor, and Thomas Blake kept to himself, even at church, sitting in silence in the back pew and escaping the moment the service was done. In point of fact she could not recall the last time she'd spoken to the man, but he had always been perfectly polite, and Jean felt it was high time she come to speak with him in person. Even if he did make her terribly nervous; she'd dressed with care that morning, wanting to make a good impression when she came to this fine house. Everything about Thomas Blake was grand and expensive and refined, and looking at him now, with his three-piece suit and his ivory-handled cane, Jean couldn't help but feel somewhat shabby in comparison in her homemade dress.

"Not at all, Mrs. Beazley. What can I do for you?"

"I've brought a lemon drizzle cake," she said, raising hands slightly to show off her burden. "I know that it's your favorite." Jean was quite friendly with the doctor's housekeeper, and this would not mark the first time she'd baked a lemon drizzle for him, though it was certainly the first time she'd delivered it to the man herself. Doctor Blake looked terribly confused, and so she rushed to explain herself. "I just wanted to say thank you, Doctor Blake. You've been a great help to us, since Lucien came home, and I can't tell you how much I appreciate it."

"Since Lucien…" Thomas Blake and his son bore little resemblance to one another, save for their bright blue eyes, but there was no warmth in those eyes now. He looked dreadfully confused, his brow furrowed with worry. "Why don't you come inside, Mrs. Beazley?"

He took a step back, opening the door wider so that Jean could join him in the foyer. He turned away from her at once, leading her towards the kitchen, and though Jean followed him dutifully she could not help but feel suddenly quite concerned. Why did Doctor Blake seem so troubled? Why had he not smiled, upon hearing mention of the son who had visited him twice a week for two months now?

"My housekeeper has the day off," Doctor Blake said as they reached the kitchen. "But I can manage the kettle by myself. Why don't you have a seat and we'll have a cup of tea."

It was not a request, and so Jean did as she was bid, placing the cake in the center of the table and folding herself primly into a chair. Tea with Doctor Blake; she had hardly expected such hospitality, and yet she took no comfort in it. He was silent as he worked, and though for a moment she contemplated engaging him in conversation in the end she held her tongue, and chose to wait him out. Clearly the man had something to say, and Jean had manners enough to wait until he was ready to speak his piece. It was several minutes before the tea was ready, but eventually Thomas placed a steaming cup in front of her, returning in a moment with a small bowl of sugar cubes.

"Mrs. Beazley," he began as he settled himself across from her, the intensity of his gaze somewhat disconcerting now. "Did you say that Lucien's back?" there was a terrible sort of hopeful confusion in his voice, and Jean's heart sank in her chest like a stone.

 _Surely he didn't lie to me,_ she thought as she stared at Doctor Blake, aghast. "Well, yes," she said slowly. "He came home in January. Do you mean to tell me you haven't seen him?"

"Mrs. Beazley," Thomas said sadly, "I have not seen or heard from my son in twelve years."

Jean's hand was shaking so badly she was forced to place her teacup back upon the table for fear that she might drop it and shatter the fine china. For two months now Lucien had left her alone every Tuesday and Saturday, going to see his father. He had spoken to her of the old man, assured her he was well, told her that it was Thomas who had provided the funds that had so helped her regain some profitability in the farm. Faced with the truth now Jean was suddenly terrified, her mind running away with her, providing a hundred terrible possibilities for where that money had come from, for what Lucien was getting up to when he was out of her sight.

"I don't understand," she said, softly. "He told me he'd spoken to you."

"Why don't you start at the beginning," the doctor suggested, his eyes still deeply troubled.

And so she did. Jean spoke to him haltingly of the terrible letter Lucien had delivered, of the bargain they had struck. She told him how she thought Lucien had been visiting his father, though she made no mention of the money. The last thing she wanted was to sit in this fine house and discuss her own finances, and besides, she rather felt that Lucien owed it to his father to speak the truth himself.

When at last her tale was through she took a deep breath and a long sip of tea, and waited for Thomas's recrimination. It did not come, however; the doctor was not cross, did not rail against his son for the lies that he had told. He only sighed once, softly, sadly.

"It's my own fault, I suppose," he said heavily. "We had a terrible row, the night he left. I'm ashamed to say I threatened to disown him."

"He mentioned that," Jean said before she could stop herself.

Thomas looked at her for a long moment, his gaze searching, thoughtful. "I thought you were just a...distraction, you see," he said. "I thought Lucien was making a mess of things, and I wanted to put a stop to it before he damaged both of your reputations. Clearly I was wrong. He must have cared for you a very great deal. He never came back."

_As you well know, my father has always disapproved of my romantic entanglements._

Jean had not understood, at the time, what it was Lucien was trying to tell her, but now, sitting in this kitchen with Thomas Blake, hearing his words, she realized quite suddenly  _exactly_ what he'd meant. They'd rowed because of her, because Lucien was seeing her. Lucien had left town and never looked back, because of her.

 _But if he cared for me so much_ , she thought numbly,  _why didn't he come for me? Why didn't he write to me?_

The world was spinning around her, and Jean could not make sense of any of it. Her thoughts tumbled through her mind in a chaotic welter, and when she finally spoke she had not even realized the words were coming out of her mouth until it was too late.

"I didn't know," she said. "He never told me. He never told me about any of this."

"I imagine he would want to spare you the distress," Thomas said graciously. "You've both married, had children, moved on with your lives. I can't fault him for staying away, when I was the one who drove him out." He paused to take a sip of his tea, and then continued. "I must say I am surprised, though, that he's agreed to work on your farm. And I'm surprised you've allowed him to stay. You must know that people will talk, Mrs. Beazley, when they find out where he's living."

"He sleeps in the barn," Jean protested at once, pride causing the color to rise in her cheeks even as she recognized that Thomas was right, that she had without thought created a situation ripe for gossip. "He's a farmhand, that's all." Even if he was handsome, even if she had loved him once, they had neither of them even approached the line of impropriety. Lucien was polite and circumspect, and they respected the boundaries of space and decorum between them. There had not been a whisper, from either of them, of a desire for anything more, not when they were both grieving and exhausted.

"I don't mean to doubt your virtue, Mrs. Beazley," the doctor said gently. "I have watched you grow into a fine young woman. You and Christopher made a fine match and you have raised three fine children. I don't think there's a soul in Ballarat who would have a single unkind thing to say about you. Lucien has always been rather more reckless, though."

The doctor's words left Jean quite speechless; she did not know how he had come to form such an opinion of her, but he was an intelligent, observant man, and she knew he was not trying to flatter her. Had he been watching, all these years, taking note of the girl who had cost him his relationship with his son? It would seem he had been, and she did not know how to feel about it.

"I would like, very much, to speak to him," Thomas continued. "I don't care that we fought, I don't care that he married a Chinese woman. I have been worried about him for over a decade now, and while I'm glad he's safe, I think there's rather a lot we ought to say to one another. Could you tell him, from me, that he is welcome here at any time?"

"I'll do better than that," Jean said sternly. "Do you have any appointments on Saturday morning? I'll drive him here myself."

And that was that, as far as she was concerned. They finished their tea, Doctor Blake asking polite questions about the children and Jean inquiring after his health, though neither of them had their hearts in the conversation. Jean was reeling, struggling to come to terms with everything she'd learned this day. She had never known, before, that Thomas was even aware of her connection to Lucien, let alone that he argued with his son over her. How closely had he watched her, she asked herself now; had he realized just how soon Lily was born after her wedding, did he take note of the days and ask himself if there were any chance her child was his granddaughter? Throughout their chat he was courteous and kind, and there was nothing in his gaze that told her he might suspect just how far her dalliance with Lucien had gone, but still, she worried.

And more than that, she was quietly, desperately furious. Lucien had been lying to her for months, and that realization had neatly demolished all the goodwill they'd built up between them. If he had only told her straight out that he was not prepared to see his father she would have understood, having enjoyed a rather tense relationship with her own father, but he had not confided in her. How could she trust him now? What else had he lied to her about?

Jean left that day with a fury in her heart and more questions than she could count, determined to speak to Lucien, alone, at the first opportunity.


	13. Chapter 13

_27 February 1946_

After supper Lucien lingered in the kitchen, as he often did, volunteering to help Jean with the washing up so that children might be allowed to go and play in the last of the evening sunshine. Though their cheerful games always took place in full view of the kitchen window what they actually got up to out there remained something of a mystery to Lucien; it seemed to involve a great deal of imperious pointing on Lily's part, and quite a bit of grumbling from young Jack, but the three of them seemed to enjoy their time together out on the grass. At least, they enjoyed it more than washing dishes with their mother. For his part Lucien was content where he was, standing vigil beside Jean with a dishtowel at the ready, prepared to dry every plate and bowl and utensil she handed to him without complaint.

His thoughts had resolved themselves somewhat, over the course of the day. There would always be a piece of his heart, he supposed, that would hate himself for what he had done, the choices he had made, the way he had lost his wife and child, the fact that he had survived when so many others had not. A long day spent only in his own company had given him space to accept that, and to acknowledge that he was doing everything he could for Li. The international climate was too tense, and the bills in his jar too few, to allow him to book travel now, and even if he could have gone to China himself, he did not even know where to begin looking for Li. Derek had done all he could, and Lucien had written his letters, and there was nothing left to do now but wait. He knew there was no sense in wasting that time in self-recrimination and pitiful isolation, and so as he ate his supper he had smiled at the children, and at Jean, had thanked his lucky stars that somehow he had found a safe haven where he could rest his weary bones while he waited for news.

It would seem he was not the only one who had been troubled that day, however; Jean's eyes had been flinty as she sat across from him, a little furrow forming between her brows, and as he'd watched her he'd been sharply reminded of their previous acquaintance, had recognized at once all the little signs that she was holding back a towering fury. It caught him off guard, sometimes, those memories of how well he had known her once. Most days it seemed like something that had happened in another life, to another man, to another girl. When he looked at her now, though she was beautiful, though she was strong, though she was clever, though she was  _good,_ he could hardly believe that this woman was the same one who had sheltered him in the cradle of her thighs, who had run her fingers through his hair and whispered promises of love and devotion in his ear. He could hardly believe that he had ever once experienced the sheer bliss of her skin soft and smooth beneath his hands. The time had changed them both, and though he could recall the sight of her breasts and the curve of her hips he tried to banish such thoughts, tried to remember that they had both moved on, wed other people and lost them and all that bound them now was grief and duty. In moments like this, however, keeping his distance was difficult, for he knew that something was weighing heavily upon her mind, and with the children banished to the outdoors and Jean standing beside him furiously scrubbing a pan he could not quell his curiosity, and spoke with a second thought.

"All right, Jean?" he asked her softly.

She did not turn to look at him, did not for a moment cease her attack upon the offending pan, but her shoulders tightened and her mouth turned down in the ghost of a frown, and he braced himself for impact.

"As a matter of fact," she said tartly, "no. I had an interesting conversation with your father today."

Lucien's heart sank in his chest like a stone.  _Oh, bugger,_ he thought. "My father?" he repeated, somewhat lamely.

"Oh, yes," she snapped. So aggressive was the movement of her hands that a bit of water splashed out of the sink to land upon her blouse, and Lucien stood spellbound and horrified, staring at the spot. "He was quite surprised to hear you're back in Ballarat."

And with those words she spun, thrusting the pan into his hands, and he could do nothing but scramble to keep hold of it, soaking the front of his shirt and staring at her, his mouth and opening and closing like a fish out of water, desperate to breathe, while she faced him with all the righteous indignation she could muster. Jean was a small woman, slight of build and a head shorter than he, but he was all but cowering in the face of such wrath.

He had known, from the very first, that he could not lie to her forever. Ballarat was not such a very large town, and his father was well-known and respected. Word would eventually reach the old man, he knew, and when it did he had known that he would have to confess his duplicity to Jean. He just hadn't expected it to happen so  _soon,_ had hoped that he'd be allowed the opportunity to explain himself before she discovered the truth, and now he was left well and truly on the back foot.

"Jean," he stammered her name, but she had the upper hand, and she knew it, and she bore in relentlessly.

"What I want to know, Lucien, is where on earth you got that money. What have you been doing all this time when you said you were visiting him? I will not be party to anything illegal, and if you think I'm going to let you stay on here while you've been out-"

"I haven't done anything illegal!" he cut her off quickly. "I've been working for Mark Dempster, two days a week. I promise, Jean, I came by that money honestly."

Truth be told he was somewhat hurt that she would even suspect that he had been involved in anything untoward, but he understood how she had come to that conclusion. Sneaking off, not telling her where he was going or why, lying as he stuffed bills into her hand to help keep the farm up; he had not comported himself like a man with nothing to hide. Now he could only hope that she believed him, and in the sudden slump of her shoulders he could see that she did.

"Why don't we sit down, Jean, and I'll tell you everything," he suggested, motioning towards the sitting room.

Without a word Jean walked away from him, making her way to the sofa where she immediately sat, folding her legs primly and staring up at him with so many questions in her gaze he hardly knew where to begin. He took a seat in the armchair across from her, wondering briefly if this had been Christopher seat once, if the man would be cross with him for usurping it now.  _Too late for that,_ he told himself.

"Why, Lucien? Why did you lie?" Though some of the anger had left her, no doubt as a result of her relief in learning that he had earned the money he'd given her through hard work, she was by no means warming to him. Lucien took a moment to marshal his thoughts, trying to decide how best to answer her. The truth was a complicated thing, and he was hesitant to share it with her now, but he knew he had no other choice. If he wanted to stay on, working on her farm and sleeping in her barn and taking his meals at her table, nothing less than the truth would do.

"I didn't want to bother you with it," he said at last. "I don't want to see my father because I have no idea how he'll react, when he learns about my family. I don't want to see him because I haven't spoken to him in twelve years, not since the night he told me I was no son of his. I don't want to see him because I don't want to hear any unkind thing he might have to say about me living here with you. Yes, I lied to you, Jean, but I just thought...I thought you didn't need that reminder of what happened. Before."

* * *

Jean's head was spinning, slightly. Not for the first time, Lucien had just referred to his falling out with his father as if she'd known all about it, when in truth she had known nothing at all of it before this morning. Why did he seem to think she was privy to the truth of his relationship with his father? Why had he tried to protect her, when she hadn't even known what it was he was protecting her from?

"Lucien," she began slowly, haltingly. "Your father told me you...rowed, because of me."

He was looking at her strangely, his brow furrowed, his mouth open slightly as if her words had confused him, but before she could speak again he found his voice, and stunned her utterly.

"Of course we did," he said, sounding somewhat exasperated about the whole thing. "I told you all this, Jean. In that letter I sent to you. I know it's been a long time-"

"What letter?" she cut across him sharply, hating how shrill her voice sounded and yet suddenly utterly unable to control herself. Her hands were shaking, and she had to close her eyes for a moment in a desperate bid to settle her rattled nerves. When she opened them again she found Lucien watching her, a sort of comprehension dawning in his eyes.

"The night I left, I slept on the street, and in the morning I took the first bus to Melbourne. As soon as I got there I sent you a letter, Jean. I told you all about the fight, about…" his voice trailed off; no doubt he could see the truth written on her face. Jean had never received such a letter, and the realization that one simple mishap with the post had changed both their lives forever left her feeling faintly nauseous. "I sent you another, a month later when I hadn't heard back from you."

"I never got them," she breathed, trying not to weep. It was unbearable, really, this truth that now settled heavy as a stone in her stomach. If only she'd gotten his letter, she would have known how to reach him, would have been able to tell him about Lily. What would he have done, if he'd known she was pregnant? How vastly different would their lives have been, if only they'd had that chance to reconnect? Would it be Jean, instead of his Chinese wife, dead at the bottom of the sea? Would it be Lucien, and not Christopher, who'd died in some far-flung corner of the globe? Would he have even joined the army at all, if only they'd had one another to cling to?

"Oh, God," Jean choked out, lifting a hand to cover her mouth, desperately trying not to weep.

* * *

There were tears in the corners of Jean's eyes, and no breath left in Lucien's lungs. For twelve years he had believed that she had received his letters, and chosen not to answer him, that she had read his words pleading with her to join him in Melbourne, to be his wife, and decided that she wanted no part of him. For twelve years he had believed that however much he loved her she must not have felt so much for him, if she could so easily cast him aside. Now, though, now he knew. He could see it in her ravaged expression, in the trembling of her hands; she had never read his words, and maybe if she had, their lives would have been entirely different. If only she'd received his letters, then maybe those children playing outside would have been his, maybe the grief they both carried in their hearts never would have been, for they would have had each other, always.

It was too terrible to even comprehend.

However much those two letters might have changed the course of their lives, it was too late now. Lucien had wed another, and Jean had loved her Christopher, and they were too far gone down the paths they had chosen to torture themselves with regret and lost opportunity. There was no need to tell her, he decided in that moment, that in those letters he had begged her to marry him. There was no need to tell her of the dreams that had been shattered by their long separation, no need to add to her heartbreak. It would fall to him to find a way through this, for both of them, and so he willed himself to be strong, for Jean's sake.

"Well," he said, his hands clenched in fists upon his knees, "we can't change it now, Jean. I am sorry, if you've thought for all this time…" he didn't finish the thought, for the single tear rolling down her cheek told him that much as he had spent the last twelve years thinking she had spurned him, she had spent all that time thinking he had abandoned her.  _Quite a pair, aren't we?_ He thought morosely.

* * *

For several long minutes they sat in silence, Jean struggling to contain the welter of emotions that threatened to spill out of her. She very nearly confessed it all to him then, how she thought he had jilted her, how she had found herself pregnant, how she had wed Christopher in a desperate bid to save her reputation and protect her child, how she hated herself for thinking, even for a moment, that she would rather have had Lucien instead. The words remained unspoken, however, for all she could think of was Christopher, how he had loved her, how they had built this life together, how if only she had never been thrown into his path, if only she had been with Lucien and Christopher had been free to find himself another woman, he might still be alive.  _How could this have happened?_ She wondered.  _How could it have all gotten so far out of control?_

"I will speak to my father, Jean," Lucien said at long last, and his words gave Jean the strength to draw in a deep breath, and look at him once again. There was hurt in him, yes, but he seemed resolved to his fate, and the fact that he had not chosen this moment to make some grand romantic declaration, that he had said only  _we can't change it now,_ helped to strengthen her flagging resolve. He was right, she knew. They could not live in the past, could not change what they had done, and maybe he would not want to. Maybe he loved his wife more than he had ever loved her, maybe he was grateful that the course of fate had taken him far from Ballarat. In her heart, though Jean dearly wished she had been able to tell Lucien the truth of his child, she could not think, even for a moment, of trading away her sons and her home and all the memories of the last twelve years for his sake. She would give anything to bring Christopher back, anything but her sons, her children whom she treasured above anything else in the world. Maybe Lucien felt the same way about his little Li. It was all so confusing, Jean could hardly fathom the truth of her own heart. But Lucien had thrown her a life raft, and she clung to it now.

"You should," she said, her voice wavering only slightly. "He's terribly worried about you."

Before they could speak another word the children came trooping in from the garden, quarreling about some trivial nothing, and by the time Jean got them settled down and ready for bed Lucien had already left her.

_It's for the best,_ she told herself.


	14. Chapter 14

_2 March 1946_

"I'll be back in about an hour, will that be all right?" Jean asked softly, her grey eyes searching his face as they sat together in her car, parked in the drive at his father's house.

Lucien stared up at that house, at the curtains fluttering behind the window panes, the myriad brilliantly blooming flowers, the familiar slope of the roof, the brand-new Holden parked just a few feet away from them. Jean had been insistent that he come to see his father and Lucien had been so shamed by the fact that he had lied to her that he could find no reasonable excuse to keep himself away. Early that morning Jean had bundled him into the car, having left a list of chores to keep the children occupied while the pair of them made the jaunt into town, and it had all happened so very quickly that he had not yet been able to formulate a plan of attack. His father was in that house, the father who had cursed him, spurned him, the father he had not spoken to for twelve long years.

_He's terribly worried about you,_ Jean had told him. It was difficult for Lucien to imagine his father feeling anything but smug superiority and self-righteousness, but he knew how much the last twelve years had changed him, and he could not help but wonder if perhaps the time had changed his father as well. Lucien had grown, become a father himself, had shattered and been plastered back together so many times he hardly recognized himself any more. What would his father think of him, he wondered, when he saw him now?

"That will be just fine, Jean, thank you," he told her.  _Just an hour,_ he thought, staring up at that house.  _You can survive for one hour._

"Go on, Lucien," she told him gently, reaching out to squeeze his arm once in reassurance.

Her smile was bright, and her eyes were calm, and the touch of her hand upon his forearm was warm, and altogether he drew a great deal more comfort from her steady presence than he would like to admit. He gave her a weak, fleeting sort of smile, and then slipped from the car, squaring his shoulders like the soldier he had been and making his way up to the front door, where he knocked twice before taking a step back, waiting.

When he dressed that morning Lucien had taken care to choose his finest clothes; a white shirt that Jean had ironed for him while he sat at the table in just his vest, eating breakfast with the children; a pair of dark trousers that the army had given him that he saved for trips into town; his heavy brown boots, carefully scrubbed clean of all traces of mud and dirt; and the hat he had bought for himself with the first of his earnings. It was a cool morning, and he had been forced to concede defeat and tug on his green army jacket once again, but he left it unbuttoned, not wanting to present himself as a soldier when he had not been one for such a very long time now. Though his clothes were neat and clean he knew that beneath his close-cropped hair and well-trimmed beard he was still thinner than he had been, still a little wild around the eyes, and he could not help but wonder how his father would react, to see him dressed in such a fashion. It was a far cry from the crisp tailored suits his father favored, and Lucien knew how important appearances were to Thomas Blake.

In a moment the door was opening, and Lucien's breath caught in his throat as he looked upon his father now.

As ever Thomas was dressed in a dark blue three-piece suit, not a wrinkle in sight, his mustache neat and his right hand resting on a fine ivory-handled cane. His eyes, those eyes as blue and bright as Lucien's own, went wide the moment he saw his son, and before Lucien knew what was happening Thomas had - quite uncharacteristically - reached out and thrown his arms around his son.

In all of Lucien's memories Thomas was tall and terrible and distant as the sun, but in this moment he was quite suddenly overcome with the realization that he was in fact a bit taller than his father, and broader through the shoulders, that somewhere along the way Thomas Blake had shrunk from a titan of disapproval into a man, just a man, small and fallible.

"Lucien," his father breathed in a voice choked with emotion, "welcome home, son."

As he spoke those words Thomas took a step back, clearing his throat and straightening his jacket in a blustering, abashed sort of way. For his part Lucien was staring at his father opened mouthed, as if he'd never seen the man before; in the last half a minute Thomas Blake had just shown more emotion, more humanity, than Lucien could recall having ever seen from him before, and Lucien had absolutely no idea how to proceed.

"How about some tea, then?" his father asked.

And what could Lucien possibly say to that except  _yes, thank you?_ He nodded dumbly, and followed his father into the house.

* * *

"Jean told me you got married in Singapore," Thomas said finally.

They had been sitting together for several minutes, somewhat awkwardly, discussing the weather and sipping their tea, both of them trying to discern where they ought to go from here, how much they ought to say. Lucien was so troubled by the change in Thomas, by the sense that the disapproving, pugnacious man he remembered had been spirited away and replaced by someone else altogether, that he could hardly find the words to speak to the man.

"I did," he said slowly. This had been one of his greatest fears, that his father might learn of his Chinese wife and scorn him once again, as he had so many years before when he discovered that his wayward son had been tumbling with the daughter of a poor farmer. "Her name was Mei Lin."

There it was; there was no denying the origin of her name, the truth of his story, but Thomas did not furrow his brow, did not grumble about his having taken an unsuitable wife. In fact, he did nothing of the sort.

"I'm sorry, son," he said softly.

There was a warmth, a compassion in him that quite took Lucien's breath away. Of course Thomas Blake had lost his wife too soon, been left all on his own with a child he knew nothing about, with a deep and boundless grief, a terrible, all encompassing silence filling his home when it had once been so full of life and song. Having endured such pain, it seemed he felt he could understand the depth of his own son's loss, and Lucien couldn't help but wonder angrily where all this sympathy had been when he was young and in need of counsel.

"You had a child as well?" Thomas prompted him.

It wasn't fair, Lucien knew, for him to sit there silent and sullen while his father tried so very hard to keep the conversation going, to make amends between them. Thomas deserved more than that, Lucien supposed, if he had decided that Lucien was his son after all, if he had decided to forget the spite and the rage that had filled him the last time they spoke.

"Li," he answered, his voice cracking a little as he spoke her name, as the sight of her face swam before his eyes, ribbons in her dark hair, a smile on her lips. Little Li, so far from his arms, that girl who was his light, his heart.  _I have to find her._ "My daughter's name is Li. I have a photo," he added, reaching into his jacket pocket and retrieving his wallet. Tucked away inside was a picture of his family, taken just before the war; Mei Lin sat upon a chair, Li on her lap, Lucien behind them with a proud smile on his face and his hand resting on Mei Lin's shoulder. Watching his father take that photo from him inspired a riot of conflicting emotions; he wanted to snatch it back, to keep the truth of his family to himself, and likewise he wanted to weep and unburden his heart entirely, and he could not decide which path was the right one. "I've had confirmation that my wife...did not survive the war, but Li may still be alive, and I have contacts in China who are helping me search for her."

"She's a beautiful little girl, Lucien," his father said sadly, handing the photo back to him. "If there is anything at all I can do to help, please, let me. I would like nothing more than to see you bring her home."

Lucien opened his mouth to speak, suddenly unable to keep from asking  _what the bloody hell happened to you, old man,_ but mercifully Thomas read his question in his eyes, and answered it before Lucien embarrassed the both of them.

"The army sent word to me, a few years ago, that they believed you had been held captive," he said slowly. "I had read in the papers about all the terrible things that happened in those camps, and I couldn't bear the thought of you...I was responsible for sending you away, Lucien. It was my fault. For years, all I could think was that your mother would have been so furious with me. I let my pride, my hopes for your future, blind me to the fact that you are your own man, and that you must make your own choices. And then, about a year ago, I suffered a minor heart attack."

"Dad," Lucien interrupted, his voice slightly strangled by the weight of the moment. Lucien's mother had died when he was ten years old, and in all the many years since Thomas Blake had never once spoken of his wife. Lucien had assumed his silence was the product of a callous heart, but now he knew better. Thomas had been silent for he grieved too deeply to speak. Now, though, it would seem he had found his voice.

"I'm fine," Thomas said, waving his hand dismissively. "I get tired rather easily and I have to walk with this bloody thing," he indicated his cane, "but I'm fine. I will say, however, that a brush with death forced me to reconsider some of the choices I have made. Lucien, you will always be my son, no matter where you go, no matter what you do. And I will always try my best, for you, if you will let me, if you will accept my help."

Lucien looked down at his teacup, trying very hard not to weep. He had not expected this, when he arrived that morning, had not expected to be met with kindness and candor, and he found he had absolutely no idea what to do now that he had discovered his father was such a changed man. Though he bitterly wished that Thomas could have endured such a change of heart when Lucien was still young, before the anger and the misunderstandings between them had ruined Lucien's life utterly, he was still deeply grateful to have a father now, a man who cared, who would support him. There were not words sufficient to encompass the churning in Lucien's heart, the confusion, the relief, the boundless sorrow, and so he did not speak, simply looked down at his tea and tried to hold himself together. He sat there at his father's table, gaunt-faced and dressed in secondhand clothes, keenly aware of the image he must have presented, compared to his father's neat suit and fine house, and yet Thomas had not judged him for it. His father had welcomed him, with open arms.

It was quite the strangest morning Lucien had experienced for some time.

* * *

_4 March 1946_

Though the weekend had been cool and clear Monday morning dawned hot and muggy, and Jean's strength was flagging as the afternoon wore on. She had spent most of the day in the fields with Lucien; the lettuce had come in, and they were pulling up basket after basket beneath the endless beating rays of the sun. Oh, she had been granted a brief reprieve when she went into town to fetch the children from school, the air whipping through the open window of her car reviving her somewhat, but when she returned she settled the children in the house and made her way back outside to help Lucien with the last of the harvesting for the day.

It was strange, how easily Luicen had taken to the work, the way he carried on, bending and gathering row after row, a smile never far from his lips though his brow was glistening with sweat. In deference to the heat of the day he had stripped out of his shirt, working in nothing but his stained singlet, his broad shoulders and biceps on full display as he toiled just a few feet away from her. Jean could enjoy no such luxury, though she had donned a pair of trousers and a lightweight blouse rather than her usual close-fitting skirts, and she was suffering in the heat. Lucien had known nothing at all of farming when he came to her, and he still needed guidance, but this was a task he could manage well enough, and there was no need for Jean to oversee his work.

They had spoken to one another at the beginning of the day, Lucien telling her of the conversation he'd had with his father on Saturday, how stunned he was to find his father so very changed. They had laughed together, Jean chiding Lucien for his somewhat over-eager work, reminding him that they had a long way to go and he ought to conserve his strength. Now, though, late in the afternoon, after toiling for so very long, they did not speak at all. Jean felt herself wilting like a poorly-tended flower in the heat, desperate for a chance to rest and yet unwilling to stop until the work was through. Lucien had arranged to deliver the lettuce to the greengrocer in the morning, and it would not do for them to stop before every last piece of it had been gathered up.

Perhaps if she had been well-rested, if she had not been working so very hard, if she had taken the time to slip into the house and sit in the shade and drink a glass of water, she might have been more resilient. As it was, Jean had been sleeping very little of late, her dreams tormented by visions of her husband covered in blood, of Lucien's well-muscled form sitting at her table wearing only his vest, her heart torn in so many directions she hardly knew which way to go. The mournful tale Lucien had poured out to her, the revelation that he had quarreled with his father over her, that he had written her letters she had never received had left her so confused, so devastated, so utterly adrift that she could hardly eat. The what-ifs plagued her, and she found that now she knew he had not abandoned her, now that she knew he had cared for her deeply enough to fall out with his father, that he had spent months in Melbourne waiting for an answer from her - an answer that would never come - she found she could no longer look at him the same way. Before that revelation she had forced all thoughts of his handsome face, of his strong hands from her mind, content in the knowledge that they had both moved on, that their hearts had never truly belonged to one another. Now, though, every time she looked at him a heat and a yearning she thought she had left behind her welled up inside her once again. He was tan and strong from working on the farm, and it had been so long, so very long, since last Jean had fallen asleep with a man's strong arms around her.

For all that her eyes had been opened to the inherent temptation in having a man she cared for, a kind man, a strong man so close to hand, her heart was now in turmoil such as she had never before endured. It was Christopher, not Lucien, whom she had wed, whom she had promised herself to, Christopher's children she bore, Christopher's house she kept, Christopher whose name she had taken, to whom she had bound her life. And yes, her Christopher was gone, would never again be returned to her arms, but she could not,  _would_ not betray his memory by giving into those old familiar longings for Lucien. Lucien was here, working beside her, because he needed the money and a place to sleep, a safe haven to mourn his wife and search for his child, and she knew that however appealing she might find him he loved his family too deeply to see her as anything more than a friend, a means to an end. Conflicted and confused she fretted, and slept not a wink, and neglected herself to the point that now her legs no longer seemed to want to hold her up.

_Just a little while longer,_ she told herself, willing her body to carry on, despite her exhaustion, despite the way she seemed to sway on the spot. Once more she bent to her task, but this time it would seem that she had had enough; her vision went dark around the edges, and the last thing she saw before she crumpled to the ground was Lucien, eyes wide with concern, calling out her name, running to her side and yet too late to catch her before she slipped out of consciousness altogether.

* * *

Jean had been behaving rather strangely for most of the day; though they had started off cheerful and chatting to one another as the hours wore on she had grown quiet and withdrawn, her face pale despite the sun overhead. Though he was occupied with his own task Lucien tried to keep his eye on her, terribly worried by the trembling of her hands. In truth, she had been behaving strangely since Wednesday night, since he revealed his lies and the fact that he had written to her after leaving Ballarat so many years before. At first he had believed that she was simply troubled by his lies, that the strange looks she gave him, the way she shied away when he stood too close was a product of her distaste for his deception, but as the days wore on he began to wonder if perhaps there was something else afoot. Did she feel as conflicted as he did, having learned that the assumptions that had carried them through the last twelve years were incorrect, having learned that they had both of them cared more deeply for one another than they had ever imagined? Was she as troubled as he was by the thought that their whole lives might have changed, if only she had received his letters? He had not told her the truth of the words that he had written to her, his desperate proposal, but perhaps she had guessed it already; she had always been so clever, his Jean.

Knowing now that she had not spurned him, had not knowingly turned her back on him left him reeling, and he couldn't help but wonder if she felt the same. If now when she looked at him that veil of propriety had been removed, as it had been for him. For in truth, now when he looked at her he did not see only a widow, a friend, a kindred spirit; now when he looked at her he saw  _Jean,_  his Jean, his beautiful, brilliant girl, the one who had given herself to him so completely, who had held him so tightly. Now when he looked at her he could not help but recall the taste of her kiss, the fire of her touch, and though his conscience cursed him for thinking of her in such a way when his wife was dead and he ought to have been solely focused on his mourning, when her husband was dead and he knew that she grieved for him still, he could not stop his eyes from following the curve of her hip, the swell of her breast against her well-fitted blouses, longing and want rising up within him for the first time since the war began. A fire had been lit deep in his belly, and he could think of no way to quench it save having her; for all that he wanted her, however, he kept his distance, knowing it was folly, knowing he was doomed to burn to ashes in solitude and lonesomeness, ruined by an unrequited desire, destined to remain unfulfilled.

Still, he could not keep his eyes from her, even as they toiled among the endless rows of lettuce, and as the day wore on the slump of her shoulders, the way her movements slowed, gave him cause for concern. And then, as he reached the end of his own row and turned back to help her, he saw it as if in slow motion; the lettuce tumbled from her hand, and she swayed on the spot, and as her legs gave way Lucien called out her name, racing to her side in an instant.

Though he did not reach her before she fell he gathered her into his arms at once, hardly caring that they were both of them sweaty and dirty and he was not wearing a proper shirt. He lifted her easily, his arms strengthened by long days of hard work and by the terror churning in his gut. Jean had always been slight, slim of build and a head shorter than he, and he lifted her easily, one arm looped around her back, the other caught under her knees. In his arms she made no sound, simply lay limp and unmoving, and his heart pounded in his chest as he turned and beat a path back to the farmhouse. He was well and truly terrified, unable to bear the thought of anything happening to her, this woman who had already endured so much.

It would seem that Lily had caught sight of him as he approached, for the moment he reached the door she flung it open, blue eyes wide and full of fear.

"Lucien?" she asked as he barreled past her.

"It's all right, love," he answered, though he did not stop, his feet carrying him back towards Jean's bedroom as quickly as he could manage. "Could you bring us a glass of water and a damp rag, please?"

Though he could not see her he could hear her little feet scampering off to do as he had asked, and he found himself grateful for that helpful little girl, relieved that he was not alone in this moment of distress.

He reached Jean's bedroom and carefully opened the door, slipping inside at once and trying to ignore the way his heart ached, as he realized this was the first time he had ever entered this room. It was neat and clean, as was the rest of the house, though there was little in the way of decoration. Just the lacy curtains fluttering by the open window, her cosmetics strewn across the dresser top, her stockings draped atop the mirror, a photograph of Jean and her husband on their wedding day. He eased her down onto the bed, trying not to think of her lying down to sleep in this room, trying not to think of her tangled together with her husband beneath those sheets, trying not to think of the softness of her skin or how hopelessly lost he would be without her.

With some effort he forced himself to remain calm, to act as any doctor would, in such a situation. Jean made some soft noise of distress as she settled amongst her pillows and Lucien gave thanks for it, for this sign that she was not utterly lost to him. He had just gotten her shoes off when Lily appeared with a glass of water and a rag in hand, as requested. Behind her the boys lingered in the corridor, wide eyed and fearful, and Lucien spared a small smile for the three of them.

"What's happened?" the little girl asked in a tremulous voice as he relieved her of his burdens.

"It's all right," Lucien told her at once, though in truth he had no idea. "She just got too hot out there. Why don't you and the boys go back in the sitting room? I'm going to take care of her, and then we'll all have some supper."

Lily looked at him with all the trust of a child, nodded once and then left him, closing the door behind her as she went, and Lucien bent once more to his task. He placed the rag on Jean's forehead, a sharp wave of relief washing over him when he saw her eyelids flutter at the contact.

The next part was harder; with gentle hands he slipped her trousers off her hips, and then unbuttoned her blouse, peeling it from her body carefully and trying not to look at her, at the thin satin of her camisole, at her sweat-slicked her skin, the long expanse of her legs. It was significantly cooler inside the house than it had been out among the rows of lettuce, but Jean's skin was still feverishly hot, and he liked that not one bit. He could not recall when last he'd seen her take a drink of water, and so he lifted her carefully, raised her up and cradled her against his body as he reached for the glass he had set down on the bedside table.

"Lucien," she breathed, her head resting against his shoulders. Her eyes were not open, but the fact that she was speaking gave him cause to hope. With a little bit of time and a little bit of care he was certain this malady would pass, that she would be well, but he knew in his heart he would never forget the heat and the softness of her nestled in his arms, would never forget the sheer damning beauty of her, a beauty he had no right to witness.

"Drink this, Jean," he told her, lifting the glass to her lips. Compliant as a child she did as she was bid, swallowing down a few mouthfuls before she drooped against him, even that small action requiring more strength than she possessed. For a single selfish moment he held her, lost in the scent of her hair and the touch of her skin, but then he came back to himself, thinking how cross she would be, if she knew he had taken such a liberty. Gently he eased her back, watched her settle down once more, exhausted and too weary to even look at him.

"Rest now, Jean," he told her softly, reaching out to wipe the damp rag against the elegant curve of her neck, washing away the sweat and the heat of the day. "You'll be all right."

She did not answer him; he took a moment to check her pulse, his fingertips pressed against the delicate curve of her wrist, but in the end he was satisfied that she would be well if only she could sleep for a little while. At long last he stepped away from her, his heart aching at the sight of her, beautiful and vulnerable alone in that bed that was much too big for just one woman on her own.  _Pull yourself together, man,_ he thought, giving his head a little shake. He left her then, not because he wanted to, but because he knew he must, because he knew she would cross if she woke to find him watching her, because he knew that there were three small children in the sitting room in need of supper, because he knew that the longer he watched her the more he would want her, and he feared what would become of him, should his yearning for her grow any greater.


	15. Chapter 15

_2 March 1946_

Jean woke with a pounding in her head and a mouth dry as sandpaper. Beyond her bedroom window the sun had sunk low on the horizon, and around her shadows danced on the wall long and tall. There was a small glass of water waiting for her on the bedside table and so she lingered for a moment, drinking slowly, trying to recall what had happened. The last thing she remembered was working with Lucien in the fields, the heat of the day, the sheen of sweat glistening on his golden skin -

_Skin._

With a gasp Jean looked down at herself, suddenly horrified. She remembered the dizziness that had overcome her, vaguely recalled the sound of Lucien calling out her name, and then she'd woken here, wearing nothing but her knickers and a thin satin camisole over her brassiere. As weak and wrung out as she felt Jean knew she could not have walked back to the farmhouse on her own, and so it seemed to her that Lucien must have carried her here, but the thought was not a comforting one. He must have cradled her in his arms, walked her back to this room, the one room in the house he had never seen before, and he must have been the one to strip her out of her sweat-soaked clothes, clothes which she saw now were folded neatly at the foot of her bed. It was true enough that Lucien had seen every inch of her skin already, but that was long ago, when they were both young and foolish, a secret indulgence relegated to another life, before they wed other people, before their children were born, before they had chosen separate paths for themselves. To have him see her thus now, to see the changes time had wrought in her, and all without her even being aware of it, utterly horrified her. He had meant nothing untoward, she knew, had acted as any doctor would and done his best to help her, but still, a man who was not her husband had seen her very nearly naked. A handsome man, a strong man, a good man who occupied her thoughts rather more than was wise or proper.

Gingerly Jean rose out of bed on legs shaky as a newborn colt's and pulled on one of her lightweight dresses, wrapping herself in that modest protection before lifting her chin, preparing herself to face him. As she straightened her hair and took one final, fortifying breath, she resolved herself not to mention it. Lucien had helped her when she was in need, and she would have to be grateful for it, and not linger too long on thoughts of his broad, strong hands against her bare skin. The children would need to be dealt with, supper would need to be made, and she could not spare a moment more for Lucien and his hands.

With her purpose fixed in her mind Jean left her room at once, and the sound of Lucien's voice, too low and soft for her to discern his words, drew her towards the sitting room. She stood for a moment in the doorway, her breath catching in her throat as she took in the sight before her.

Lucien was seated on the couch, his head cast back and his eyes closed as he spoke. Jack was curled on his lap, his little head nestled just beneath Lucien's chin, and Lily and young Christopher sat, one beneath each of his arms, staring at him as they listened in rapt attention.

"The brave knight raised his sword, ready to slay the terrible beast at last," Lucien was saying, and Jean felt the sudden wash of tears threaten to overwhelm her as she realized he was telling them a story, no doubt one his own father had told him in childhood. Or perhaps his mother; Jean had always heard rather more complimentary things about the late Mrs. Blake than about the good doctor, had heard that Genevieve Blake was beautiful, and French, and cultured, and kind. For a moment she could almost see it, the boy Lucien seated on his mother's lap while her melodic voice washed over him, and Jean's heart broke anew at the thought of Lucien growing up without his mother there to guide him.

"But in that moment," Lucien said, his voice dropping almost to a whisper as he carried on with his tale, the tone and cadence of his words almost hypnotizing, "the dragon opened a single, blazing eye, and fixed his gaze upon the knight."

Lily gasped; no doubt the tale was nearly through, and Lucien's brave knight had endured countless perils and tribulations on his way to slay his foe.  _Couldn't it have been a happy story?_ Jean thought sadly as she watched them, lurking unseen in the shadows.  _They've seen so much sorrow already._

"For a moment they watched one another, the dragon and the knight, and then the dragon spoke."

"Dragons can't speak," Jack piped up, still cradled securely on Lucien's lap. And wasn't that strange, Jean thought now; before this moment, Jack had been rather wary of Lucien, had blamed him for his father's death. What had so changed his heart, that over the course of one afternoon he should go from barely speaking to the man to sitting on his lap?

"Oh, of course they can," Lucien said kindly. "They love riddles, and they use clever words to protect their treasure almost as often as they use fire."

"What did he say, Lucien?" Lily prodded him, desperate for more of the story.

"Well, Lily, the dragon looked at the knight, and he said  _I'm ever so sorry for all the trouble I've caused."_

Lily giggled, no doubt having expected a more ferocious response from the terrible beast. Lucien smiled down at her fondly, and the sight of that smile set guilt to churning in Jean's belly; it shouldn't have been Lucien, sitting there with the children, telling them stories, making them laugh. It should have been Christopher, but Christopher was  _gone,_ and Jean felt so many emotions all at once she could hardly give them names.

" _You see,_ the dragon said,  _I never wanted to hurt anyone. But they kept coming, with their swords and their bows and their torches, and I just wanted them to go away._ Well, our brave knight thought about this for a moment, and then he lowered his sword, because he realized that what the dragon said was true. The dragon had not come out of his cave unprovoked; each time he'd set fire to the countryside he had only been defending himself and his treasure. And then the knight realized that perhaps he did not have to slay the dragon after all; perhaps they could make a deal instead. And so he lowered his sword, and spoke.  _I'm sorry, too,_ he told the dragon,  _that so many people have come to hurt you. You just want to be left alone, don't you?_

"The dragon nodded his terrible head once, his great red eyes burning like rubies in the darkness, and at last the knight understood what he had to do.  _If you promise me you will not burn another village,_ the knight told him,  _then I will protect you for all the rest of my days, and my descendants after me. We will make sure no one hunts you, so long as you do not hurt another living soul._

"The dragon thought about this for a moment, and then he answered,  _but I have to eat, sir. I have to leave my cave, and go in search of cattle and deer, to keep my belly full. I cannot promise not to hurt another living soul._

"This presented quite a problem for our brave knight, as he knew the villagers did not appreciate the dragon setting fire to their herds and fields. But still, it seemed to him that an arrangement could be made.

" _I will speak to the villagers,_ he said.  _If we provide you with the meat you need to live, will you promise not to hurt another human? Will you promise not to burn another village?_

"The dragon agreed at once, and thus their bargain was struck. And so the dragon lived, happy in his cave on his pile of treasure, and the villagers raised up cattle just for him, and the brave knight and his children and his children's children kept the dragon safe from those who would wish him harm, for all the rest of his days.  _The end."_

Lily clapped her little hands, gleefully begging Lucien for  _another, another!_ Jack was so very still that Jean suspected he had fallen asleep despite the delighted crowing of his sister. And Christopher sat with his little brow furrowed, as if he were trying to work out the meaning in the tale. In the corridor Jean found herself wondering the very same thing; the story had a much happier - and much less bloody - ending than she was expecting, but it was certainly not the sort of story she had ever heard before. Didn't the brave knight always slay the dragon and save the day? What had possessed Lucien to tell such a tale?

"But, Doctor Blake," young Christopher said slowly, "the dragon hurt people. Shouldn't he be punished?"

"Well, Chris," Lucien said slowly as he heaved himself up, his strong arms wrapping around Jack to hold the little boy securely to his chest, "the dragon only did what he did to protect himself. The people didn't understand him, and he didn't understand them, and they hurt each other, but they didn't mean to. We must never be afraid of something - or someone - just because they're different. We must try to understand one another, to see one another as we are, and not as we think we ought to be."

_Damn him,_ Jean thought as she watched him.  _Damn him,_ for being so kind, so gentle, so terribly  _good_ , to her children and to her.  _Damn him_ for finding her in the darkest moment of her life, and offering her comfort when she knew that such kindness was not hers to claim.  _Damn him_ for the way he made her feel as if she might one day be happy again, without her husband by her side.

The time had come for her to make her presence known and so she slipped into the sitting room, walking right up to Lucien and deftly taking Jack from his arms.

"I'm so sorry," she said quietly as she adjusted her grip on her sleeping son, "I didn't mean to sleep so long."

"That's quite all right," Lucien answered, and she hated the way her stomach flipped at the softness of his tone. "You needed the rest. We've all had supper, and it's time for bed now anyway."

"Yes," Jean agreed, "it is". And then she turned away from him, saying only, "come on you lot. Let's go." She didn't know what else to say, did not trust herself to speak to him again lest some of the terrible riot of her emotions should spill out and ruin the peaceful stillness of the evening.

Lily and Christopher fell into step beside her, stopping off to brush their teeth while she carried Jack straight to his little bed. Carefully she laid him down, slipping off his shoes and helping him into his pajamas while he made those soft, sleepy sounds she loved to hear from him. At last he was curled beneath his blanket and Jean lingered for a moment, brushing his dark curls back from his forehead with a gentle hand.

"I like Lucien, mama," Jack told her, his eyes closed and his voice thick with sleep. "I like his stories. I'm sorry I was cross." He was so sweet and so very sincere that Jean knew she would never chide him for the way he had spurned Lucien before. It would seem Jack had learned his lesson.

With tears in her eyes Jean leaned forward and kissed his little cheek. "It's all right, love," she told him. "Sleep now."

* * *

Lucien was standing in the kitchen when Jean came back from putting the children to bed. At the sound of her footsteps he turned towards her, holding a plate of food in his hand with a gentle expression on his face.

"I saved a bit of supper for you," he said, holding the plate out to her. "You really ought to eat something."

Though she wanted to protest, wanted nothing more than to retreat back to her bedroom and hide herself away from him and the warmth in his eyes, the truth was Jean was quite hungry, and she knew that he was right. She forced herself to go to him, to accept the food he offered with all the good grace she could muster. Once she was settled at the table Lucien placed a tall glass of water in front of her, and then, to her delight and her chagrin, he took a seat beside her.

"I'm sorry," he said, gesturing towards the food. "Breakfast is the only meal I know how to make, it seems."

He hadn't done too badly, Jean thought as she looked down at her plate of eggs and sausages and toast. It would be more than filling, and no doubt the children would think it a bit of a lark, having breakfast for supper. "This is fine, Lucien. Thank you for looking after the children."

Lucien ran his hand over the back of his head somewhat bashfully, and Jean hated the way her heart softened at the sight. They were supposed to be friends, supposed to be employer and employee, and yet each time she looked at him all those old feelings of want, of need, of devotion stirred up within her. Christopher had been gone from her side for years now, and she had been so dreadfully, terribly lonely, but somehow she felt as if the loneliness were better than this, this companionship that felt so much like a betrayal, even if Christopher was gone, and Lucien's wife as well.

"I was happy to do it, Jean," he told her warmly. "Any time. You needed the rest, and I quite enjoy spending time with them."

_All three of them?_ Jean wondered. Though she was determined not to speak a word about it she could not help but worry that the day would soon come when Lucien would learn that Lily was his flesh and blood, and Jean hated to think how things might change, how much it might wound the boys, to see their sister loved and happy in her father's arms while they remained outside such affections.

"Jack seems to have warmed to you," she said softly, pausing to take a long sip of water.

Lucien beamed at her. "Yes, well, I'm afraid that's why you don't have any cake to go with your supper. I bribed him, you see. An extra slice of cake and a game of footie and a story, and suddenly I'm not so bad."

"That sounds like Jack," Jean said with a little smile. Yes, an extra slice of cake and a little extra attention was all Jack would need, to change his loyalties. He had a sweet tooth and a tender heart, and Lucien had appealed to both expertly.

As she ate Lucien watched her, his smile fading somewhat. Perhaps he noted the trembling in her hands, or the pallor of her face, or the way she would not quite meet his gaze. Whatever the cause, it was Lucien who spoke next.

"You gave me quite a scare, out there," he said softly. "Are you feeling all right now?"

Immediately a crimson flush stained Jean's cheeks, terribly embarrassed by all the trouble she'd caused, mortified at the thought of Lucien seeing her in such a vulnerable state.

"I'm fine, Lucien," she told him earnestly. "I'm just tired-"

"Have you been having trouble sleeping, Jean?" he leaned towards her, his gaze intent and troubled.

_How does he do that?_ She wondered crossly.  _How does he always see straight through me?_

"Lucien-"

"I'm only asking because I haven't been sleeping very well myself. I do have some idea how you're feeling, Jean."

At his words her hands began to shake so badly that she was forced to fold them in her lap, staring blankly down at her plate and once again trying valiantly not to cry. Of course Lucien knew how she was feeling; he had lost his wife, just as she had lost her husband, only she could still wrap her arms around her children while his own daughter remained lost to him. How strange it was, to realize that the one person in all the world who could best understand her grief, the struggles of her life, was  _Lucien,_ this man whose path had charted such a very different course from hers, this man she had loved so fiercely, so very long ago.

And though she knew it was folly, though she knew the right thing to do would be to demur and send him off to bed without speaking another word about it, she could not stop herself from reaching for the life raft he had offered her, unburdening herself to him, just a little bit.

"Sometimes I miss him so much I ache with it," she confessed into the silence of her kitchen. "And sometimes I don't think of him at all, and I don't know which one is worse."

"I know," Lucien said, sighing heavily. "I know."

And she knew that he did. In that moment, sitting with someone who understood her, someone who cared for her, someone who had never once presumed to pass judgment on her but only ever offered her kindness, the bands of grief and guilt that bound Jean's heart eased, just a little bit. They sat in silence until she finished her meal and bid him goodnight, but it was a comfortable sort of silence, a silence born of two people who shared the same sorrow, who carried the same burdens, who would stand beside one another, no matter what obstacles waited for them along the way.


	16. Chapter 16

_16 March 1946_

"I can't thank you enough, Jean, honestly, you're a lifesaver," Mrs. Douglas gushed in that posh voice of hers. "I don't know what I would have done without you."

It was rather hard for Jean to answer her, given the fact that at that very moment Jean was kneeling on the floor at Mrs. Douglas's feet with a mouthful of pins as she set about very carefully tacking up the hem of the expensive dress Mrs. Douglas intended to wear to a fancy party the following week. Jean made a little sound that she hoped came off as conciliatory and not disgruntled. She was supposed to be enjoying a few blissful hours of solitude this afternoon, but then Mary Ann Douglas had driven up in her brand new car, gingerly traversing the dirt path to Jean's front door and only just managing to keep herself from turning her nose up at their surroundings. Mary Ann was a few years older than Jean and so they had not known one another at school, and they hardly moved in the same social circles now, but someone had given Mrs. Douglas Jean's name and information when she discovered that her usual seamstress would be unable to see to her dress prior to the party. It would hardly have been kind to turn the woman away when she'd taken the time to drive all the way out to the farm, and Jean needed the money, so she had simply smiled, and welcomed Mrs. Douglas inside.

"You seem to be getting on quite well here, Jean, all things considered," Mrs. Douglas continued, and though Jean was not looking at her face she could tell by the tone of her voice alone that Mrs. Douglas must have been looking around the place with her nose up in the air. The little house wasn't much, Jean knew, the furnishings secondhand, the rugs threadbare, the roof in need of repair. She knew exactly what a woman like Mary Ann Douglas might see, looking around this place, knew exactly what Mary Ann meant by  _all things considered;_ she'd been ducking the whispers for years now, people murmuring behind their hands about how thin she'd gotten, how long Christopher had been away, how much she must have been struggling to keep the farm up all on her own. Now that Christopher was gone the whispers had only grown more rampant;  _poor Jean,_ they'd say, tutting softly as if in sympathy when really they were each of them passing judgement on her, thanking their lucky stars that they did not have to endure such calamity themselves. As much as it might have enraged her, however, Mary Ann Douglas was a customer, and Jean would have to be polite to her.  _Smile and take their money, love,_ that's what her mother had told her when she was young and struggling with the superior attitude of so many of the wealthier ladies in town.  _They think they've got it all, but they can't do half of what you can. Money can buy them things, but it can't buy them class._

Jean's mother, Mary, was a beautiful woman, a woman who worked hard and never complained and always appeared put together and lovely, no matter the circumstances. She could mend a fence and raise a barn and tailor a suit with a baby balanced on her hip, and she had taught Jean much the same, taught her the importance of keeping her problems to herself and presenting a brave face to the world. She died not long after Lily was born, the illness that had plagued her for years finally taking its toll, and some days Jean missed her rather more than others. It might have been nice to sit beside her mother and listen to her wise counsel, to confide in her all the worries and doubts and troubles that kept Jean up at night.

But her mother was gone, and Mrs. Douglas was here, and Jean did her best to remember the lessons her mother had taught her, and answer the woman courteously, even if in her heart she longed for nothing more than to march Mary Ann Douglas right out of her home.

"Oh, we get by," she said airly, taking the final pins out from between her lips and rising to her feet to survey her handiwork.

It really was a beautiful dress, midnight blue and softly sparkling, the neckline demure but not prudish, the skirt floating beautifully around the silver shoes Mrs. Douglas planned to wear for the party. Jean was just about to ask the woman to give a little twirl so she could check the adjustments she'd made to the skirt when a ruckus from outside drew both their attention at once.

"What on earth is that?" Mrs. Douglas asked, peering through the dusty windows in an effort to see who was approaching. Jean had no need to ask such a question for she recognized the voices at once, and her heart sank like a stone.

" _Down came a jumbuck to drink at the billabong,"_  they sang, three small, slightly shrill voices and one voice deep and warm and soft as honey, " _up jumped the swagman and grabbed him with glee,"_ Mrs. Douglas turned to give Jean a faintly appraising look as the kitchen door swung open, " _he sang as he shoved that jumbuck in his tucker bag,"_ there came the stomping of feet as the party made their way through the kitchen, heading for the sitting room, " _you'll come a-Waltzing Matilda, with me."_

Jean's cheeks were flaming, but there seemed no way to stop the impending disaster, no way to call out and put an end to the lively parade before they came storming into her living room and set all her plans to ruination.

" _Waltzing Matilda, Waltzing Matilda, you'll come a-Waltzing Matilda, with me_ ," they were all but bellowing now as there came the sound of little shoes being cast off in the kitchen and fishing poles laid to rest against the wall.

"Jean!" Lucien called out as the children continued their song. Why did he have to choose this moment to throw propriety to the wind and call her by her given name in front of the children? His timing could not have been worse, for Mary Ann Douglas was a terrible gossip, and terribly well-connected, and she appeared terribly curious as to who this strange man was, marching into the widow Beazley's home as if he belonged there. "Whatever you're planning for supper," Lucien continued while the little ones finished up their song, "put it aside. Jack has made a mighty - oh my goodness I do beg your pardon."

If Jean hadn't been so horrified she might well have laughed, for it really was a most comical sight. As he called out to her Lucien had come bounding into the sitting room with Lily and young Christopher hot on his heels. He carried Jack upon his shoulders, and each of the older children carried a bucket in their hands, sloshing a bit of water on the floor in their haste to reach their mother and show off their catch. Lucien had agreed to take them fishing for the afternoon, though he did not have the first clue how to go about doing such a thing, and it would seem that despite his ineptitude they had managed to land a few fine specimens. Any pride Jean might have felt over their catch, however, was utterly demicated by her mortification.

Lucien stood in the doorway to the sitting room barefoot and barechested, clad only in a pair of dark trousers with the hems rolled up above his ankles. His hair was damp and curling softly, his tanned skin and the definition of the muscles in his arms and chest so magnificently on display that had Jean not been entertaining a guest she might well have acknowledged the way the sight of him made her heart flutter. He was tall and imposing and devilishly handsome, and Mary Ann Douglas's eyebrows had lifted so high they were in danger of disappearing into her hairline. Jean knew how this must look to an outsider, how familiar he seemed with her, how comfortable he was in her home, and she could almost hear Mrs. Douglas's howls of glee as she realized she had just stumbled across a truly delicious piece of gossip.

With a somewhat abashed expression on his face Lucien reached up and carefully took Jack down from his shoulders, placing the lad on his feet and quietly instructing the children to take their buckets back outside. Jean's heart was racing, and she found herself quite unable to speak. For months now she had done her best to keep Lucien's presence in her home a secret, to keep from giving anyone any reason to discuss her life and her living arrangements, but now the decision had been taken out of her hands in the most spectacular fashion. Word of Lucien's shirtless appearance in her sitting room would be all over town tomorrow, she knew, and the whispers she so loathed were bound to take on a much more disdainful bent. She couldn't bear it, but she likewise knew that she could not avoid it. She would have to do her best to smooth things over with Mrs. Douglas now, and pray that her friends would recognize the truth, would know the measure of her character and not spare a moment for idle gossip regarding her virtue or lack thereof.

"Lucien," she said in an unsteady voice, "this is Mary Ann Douglas." Mrs. Douglas held out her hand and Lucien moved at once to take it, though his expression was somewhat pained. "Mrs. Douglas," Jean carried on with the introductions, "this is Doctor Lucien Blake. He's been helping me with the farm."

It sounded like a feeble excuse to Jean's own ears, but it was the truth, and she could only hope that Lucien would comport himself with dignity and spare them both any further embarrassment.

"Lucien Blake," Mrs. Douglas said with a smile that was neither warm nor kind. "It's lovely to see you again. You may not remember me," she added quickly, noting the confusion that danced on his face, "but you were...quite close with a friend of mine, years ago. Monica Parker? Of course, she's Monica Goodman, now."

Lucien paled, somewhat, at the sound of the name, his eyes darting from Jean's face to the floor to their guest and back again so quickly it almost left her dizzy.  _What's this, then?_  She wondered. It had been in her mind to think that things couldn't possibly get any worse, but that expression on Lucien's face gave her pause, only served to increase her distress.

"Of course," he said slowly. "And how is Mrs. Goodman?" he stressed the name, as if willfully trying to distance himself from the woman and whatever they might have shared in the past, and the triumphant turn of Mrs. Douglas's lips told Jean everything she needed to know. He must have carried on some sort of tryst with this Monica Goodman, then, and though Jean knew it must have happened before she'd ever even met the man she couldn't help the way it wounded her, just a bit, to hear of another of his conquests while he stood in her sitting room, while their daughter played just outside.  _Stop this,_  she told herself firmly.  _He doesn't belong to you, and he never did. You have more important things to worry about._

"Quite well, actually. She's got two boys of her own now, and I daresay they keep her quite busy. You know what it's like, Jean," Mrs. Douglas added, turning to her with a knowing smile that left Jean feeling faintly nauseous.

Mercifully there came a great clatter from outside and Lucien took that as his chance to flee. "I beg your pardon, ladies," he said as politely as he could, given the fact that he was half-naked and barefoot on the other side of the room. "I'll just go and see to the children." And then he turned and bolted, leaving Jean alone with her devious customer.

"Well," Jean said, somewhat lamely, desperate to break the tense silence that followed in his wake.

"Lucien Blake," Mrs. Douglas cut her off, her eyes still fixed on the doorway where he'd been standing just moments before. "You know what they say about him, Jean," she added in a low, conspiratorial sort of voice.

"I really don't," Jean said firmly. The truth was, Jean knew exactly what people said about Lucien. She'd heard the whispers for the last twelve years now, heard people remarking that he was wild, that he was reckless, that he was without scruple. They whispered that he was a rake, that he took his pleasure where he wished and did not give a damn for a girl's reputation, that he had spurned his father and raced away to live the life of a lush in Europe. Of course, those whisperers knew nothing of the truth of him, the horror he had faced, the trials he endured, the way he treated Jean and her children so kindly, and until this moment Jean had rather hoped that she would not be put in a position to have to defend him in the face of such entrenched mistrust.

"Oh, come now, Jean, surely you've heard. He just abandoned poor Monica all those years ago, broke things off with her in a letter, if you can believe that. What's he really doing here? You can tell me," Mrs. Douglas said, wheedling, eager to have her salacious suspicions proved correct.

"Mrs. Douglas," Jean answered her, "Doctor Blake sleeps in the barn and helps me with the planting. I really don't have any more to say on the subject. Why don't you go back into the bedroom and change your clothes? Leave the dress in there. I'll have it ready for you by Tuesday."

* * *

All evening Jean had been quiet and withdrawn, and Lucien had been circumspect, not wanting to cause her any further distress. While she finished up with Mrs. Douglas - whom Lucien recalled as a pimply, somewhat plump adolescent who was always hanging around Monica - he had been outside with the children, overseeing the somewhat sloppy cleaning of the fish. Though Jean had offered kisses and praise to her children, made all the right noises as she surveyed their humble offering and took the meat into the kitchen to cook, she had hardly spared a glance for Lucien. He knew she must have been terribly upset, and so he did not press her, had merely taken himself off to the barn to wash his hands in the water trough and find a shirt.

When the dishes were washed and the children put to bed Lucien poured a glass of whiskey for himself and a glass of sherry for Jean, the way he did every Saturday night, and then made his way into the sitting room where Jean was waiting for him with her head in her hands.

"I am sorry, Jean," he said softly as he offered her the sherry. "I had no idea that she was coming."

"Of course you didn't," Jean waved him off, though she would not meet his gaze. He took his usual seat upon the sofa while she remained folded neatly in the armchair across from him. She looked...haggard, and weary, and Lucien cursed himself for having caused her such distress. Things had been going so damnably well between them; the children were happy, and he had visited his father twice and they had spoken courteously to one another, and Jean had smiled at him, and he had forgotten that winter was fast approaching. There was a chill in the room that had nothing to do with autumn air, however.

"Will she make things difficult for you, Jean?" he asked carefully. It was plain from the expression on the woman's face that Mrs. Douglas had been quite scandalized by his appearance, as both Jean and Lucien knew anyone would be when they discovered that he had taken up residence with a young widow, and no one there to keep an eye on them save for her three children. Lucien hated that, hated this damn backwards town, hated the judgement and the wagging tongues and the holier-than-thou conservatism that had sent him running off to university in Scotland in his youth.

"I suppose I'll find out tomorrow," Jean said sadly. Lucien hated that, too; he knew Jean took comfort in her religion, that she went to confession regularly and sat for Mass every week, that she prayed over her food and whispered the rosary with her children. The church was her connection to her friends, to her heart, meant everything to her, but a few well-placed words about their living situation was all it would take for that community to turn its back on Jean. She deserved better than that, this woman who was so kind, so good, who had not once even entertained the notion of anything improper between them.

"I am sorry, Jean," he said again.

* * *

Jean stared at him, wondering what exactly he was apologizing for. For barging into the sitting room half-dressed? For coming to work for her at all? All evening long Mary Ann Douglas's words had played on a loop in the back of her mind;  _he just abandoned poor Monica all those years ago, broke things off with her in a letter if you can believe that._

Lucien had written Jean a letter, too, a letter she had never seen, and now she could not stop wondering at its contents. Had he tried to put an end to their affair in the same way he had ended things with Monica Goodman? He'd written her a second time, he told her, when he received no response to the first, and though that seemed to imply an altogether more noble intention Jean would never know for sure. No doubt Monica Goodman had once believed that Lucien cared for her, had believed every word he'd ever told her, just as Jean had done, and yet he'd left them both. She wished the thought didn't leave her feeling so miserable, and yet she could not banish her distress.

_But you must try,_ she told herself.  _You have Christopher's letter, and you have his children. You must love your husband, Jean, and not spare another moment for Lucien bloody Blake._

Yes, he was handsome, and he was kind, but he may well have just ostracized her from everyone in town, and no matter what happened next, she would have to remind herself that he had married another, that he had built a family all his own, without her, just as she had done. It would not do, to spend too much time thinking about things that could never be.


	17. Chapter 17

_6 April 1946_

Jean sighed, sinking slowly beneath the warm water, letting it wash away the grime of the day, ease her aching muscles and soothe her battered heart. The endless march of time stopped for no one and nothing, carried on regardless of her own wants and needs; the world hadn't come to an end the day she'd learned of Christopher's death, the day Lucien had come stumbling back into her life. It seemed wrong, unfair somehow, that such a cataclysmic change in her circumstances had not shaken the very foundations of the earth, and yet with each passing day she found her burdens that much easier to bear. It had been four months, since Jean had learned of her husband's death, four months since Lucien had confirmed the fears that she had carried deep in her heart for years on end. Four months, since her heart was torn asunder; some days those four months seemed to have lasted an eternity, and some days they seemed to have vanished in the blinking of an eye. Such was the nature of life - and of grief - she supposed; each day brought with it a new set of challenges, and each day she changed, just a little, shaped by all that she had endured. Christopher had been away from her side for four long years, and though her grief felt new, she had long since grown accustomed to his absence.

The day had been a long one; the sun had shone so brightly, the world beyond her farmhouse unseasonably warm, and she and Lucien had spent the day in the fields, tending the last of the autumn crops. As he often did when the weather was fine Lucien had foregone his shirt in favor of his sweat-stained singlet, and Jean had found herself hard pressed to keep from following every move of his body with an appreciative eye. It was a beautiful day, and Lucien was smiling, making Jean laugh, helping her to forget, for however brief a time, just how very wrong it was that she should take such comfort in the sight of his tanned skin, of the rippling muscles of his arms and back. He had been handsome in his youth, with his tumbling blonde curls and his roguish smile, but given the choice between the lean, haughty boy he'd been and the broad, gentle man he had become, Jean knew she would choose the latter every time. His neat beard and close cropped hair suited him, and his blue eyes were kindly now, not so full of fire as they had been so many years before. When he smiled at her now there were little wrinkles around the corners of his eyes; he was thirty-seven now, six years older than Jean herself, and though she knew the years had not been kind to him she could not help but feel that he had only improved with age. Time had given him dignity, had softened his heart and calloused his hands and transformed him from a pretty boy into the handsomest man Jean had ever known.

 _Stop this,_ she told herself sternly.  _Stop._

Lucien might have been handsome, might have treated her well, but she knew his heart was still grieving for his wife, still distracted with thoughts of his missing child, and whatever Jean might want of him she knew he was in no position to give it. It would not do, to press for more, to try to push the boundaries of their friendly acquaintance, not now when the whispers were running rampant in town and they were both so recently bereaved and Jean still harbored the secret of her daughter's paternity deep in her heart. The comfort of his companionship would not last forever, she knew; winter was fast approaching, and he was determined to flit off to China at the first whisper of news about his beloved Li. He would come to his senses soon enough, she knew, would realize that he was meant to be working as a doctor, in the job that he had trained for, that he was meant to be wealthy and clean and sophisticated, and that the farm was no place for a man like himself. He would leave her, again, and Jean could not bear to let herself become too dependent on him, could not bear to have him break her heart a second time.

Quite suddenly her grim musings were interrupted by the unexpected opening of the door. Jean had her mouth open to chastise whichever of her children had risen from their beds and come barging in to interrupt her bath, but she was left utterly speechless as the intruder revealed himself to be one Lucien Blake, silently closing the door before leaning back against it, watching her intently.

Though Jean knew she ought to shriek at him, ought to reach for the towel close at hand to cover her nakedness and imperiously demand he leave at once, she found her heart was pounding too fiercely, her mouth too dry for her to speak a single word. There was a heat in his eyes, an electric charge in the air that terrified her utterly. Had he spent the day as she had, watching her at work, watching the beading of sweat upon her brow, the way her clothes clung to her in the early autumn heat, felt the swirling tide of desire rising in his chest as much as she had? What did he see when he looked at her now, naked and utterly without artifice, the swells of her breasts rising up out of the water and the curve of her leg on full display? Jean knew she ought to feel shame, out to feel outrage, but she felt only longing, only a delirious, hopeful need.

"Jean," Lucien growled her name, crossing the room at once to kneel beside her. He was so  _close;_ she could smell him, faintly, the whisper of sweat and dirt and  _man_ she had missed for so many years now, could watch his chest heaving as he struggled to control himself, could see the strength in his hands as they curled around the edge of the bathtub.

"You shouldn't be here, Lucien," she whispered, knowing she ought to say the words though her heart cried out in protest.

"I couldn't stay away," he answered, reaching out to cradle her cheek in his palm, the heat of his skin striking her hard and fast as lightning. "I need you, Jean," he told her, and then before she could protest he drew her to him, and kissed her like the world was ending.

Jean whimpered, just a little, beneath the onslaught, but she was left utterly defenseless in the face of everything she'd been yearning for; her hands rose out of the water at once to press against his neck, his shoulders, to run through his hair, leaving damp trails of desperation in their wake. The angle was awkward; Lucien was kneeling, leaning over her, and Jean was pressed hard against the side of the bathtub, eager to be as close to him as possible. Perhaps she should have been ashamed, to appear so wanton, so hungry for him, but the endless press of his soft lips, the scratch of his beard against her tender skin, the sizzling intent of his tongue as it surged into her mouth left her quite unable to resist him.

Still he kissed her, holding her tight against him, but his free hand shifted, traced the column of her throat, down over her collarbone until he was cradling her breast in his palm and she was mewling helplessly, certain of nothing except that she did not want him to ever stop touching her. His thumb brushed her nipple, teased her until her flesh pebbled beneath his hand, and then he growled, and dragged his hand lower still.

 _This is madness,_  she thought, but she wrapped her hand around the back of his neck and held him to her as she spread her legs for him. It had been over a decade since last he'd touched her, and knowing now how he could inflame her, how he could please her, only made her that much more desperate for his touch.  _So long, so long,_ she thought as his hand drifted lower and lower.

" _Please,"_ she whimpered against his lips, needing him more than her next breath, and then-

And then Jean woke with a start, bathed in sweat and breathing like a bellows with a terrible ache between her legs she was loathe to contemplate. Her bedroom was all in darkness, still; the sun had not yet risen, and her tryst with Lucien had been no more than a beautiful, damning dream. She lay gasping, pressing her thighs tight together in a desperate bid to find some relief as tears of shame and bitter disappointment welled up in her eyes. Though it had not been real, though Lucien had not kissed her, had not touched her, had not in any way defiled her virtue she felt as guilty as if he were lying there beside her naked and sated. How could she have even imagined such a thing? How could her traitorous heart have tortured her so, even in sleep?

 _He's not for you,_ she told herself, though that thought only brought a fresh tide of tears.  _He belongs to someone else, and you have your children to think about._

Jean had been cold and alone in this bed for four long years, and though there were times when the absence of her husband had left her frustrated and full of unfulfilled desire, she had never been so deeply affected by a physical need. Perhaps it was the proximity of a handsome man, or perhaps it was the knowledge that  _Lucien_ , her Lucien, was the one who slept in the barn only a few yards from her front door, but whatever the cause, she knew she could not give into the despicable yearning that filled her. They had made their choices, Lucien and Jean, and she could not undo the past.

In the darkness Jean rolled onto her side and tried to recall the sight of her husband's face, the sound of his voice, the warmth of his hands, tried to remind herself that it was Christopher, and not Lucien, whom she ought to long for. The last hours of the night passed long and slow, and Jean was grumpy and out of sorts when at last the sun rose.

* * *

To her great relief, Lucien offered to take the children with him when he went to visit his father. It was a beautiful Saturday morning, and he had suggested that the children could play in the garden while he sat and spoke to his father, while Jean went to attend to the mysterious  _errands_  she claimed she needed to accomplish in town. It was the perfect solution, and so they all crammed into Jean's little car and rode into Ballarat together. She deposited her charges at the home of the elder Blake and then made her way at once to Sacred Heart, where she was relieved to find Father Morton puttering about, and not another soul in sight.

Jean quite liked Father Morton; he could be a bit stern, was a bastion of the old school when it came to his teachings, but he was kind, and he always offered a listening ear, and a gentle wisdom to all who sought him out. Ordinarily Jean came to him for confession on Saturday afternoons, but the manufactured anonymity of the confessional would not do for her purposes today.

"Good morning, Father," she said politely after she had dipped her fingertips in the font and crossed herself just inside the door of the church. He smiled that benevolent smile of his, and reached out to shake her hand at once.

"Good morning, Mrs. Beazley," he answered.

Jean straightened her shoulders and tried not to shift uneasily under that knowing stare. "I was wondering if you might have a few minutes to talk this morning," she began carefully.

Father Morton gestured towards one of the nearby pews. "Please," he said, "take a seat. I've been wondering when this day would come."

His words did not fill Jean with confidence, but she followed his lead, settling herself down onto the bench while Father Morton eased himself down beside her.

"You know, Mrs. Beazley, I do not put much stock in gossip. The book of James tells us to guard our tongues, warns believers not to slander one another, not to sit in judgement of one another. A loose tongue is a threat to our ministry in the community. And yet we all of us, from time to time, fall short of the guidance the Lord has provided for us."

Jean supposed this was Father Morton's roundabout way of telling her that he had heard some of those malicious whispers, and in a moment he confirmed her suspicions.

"It has come to my attention, Jean, that Lucien Blake has been living at your farm."

"He has, Father," Jean answered slowly, feeling sick to her stomach. Father Morton had officiated her wedding to Christopher, had baptized all three of her children. He had known her for most of her life, and his good esteem was invaluable to her. She could not bear the thought that those wretched whispers might have tainted his perception of her; how long would it be, she wondered darkly, before those terrible insinuations reached her children's ears, made her life unbearable? "He is working for me, Father, nothing more. He sleeps in the barn. I can assure you that there is nothing...improper, between us."

"Only you can know the truth of your own heart, Mrs. Beazley," the old man told her, and Jean blushed, thinking of her terrible dream. "But even so, I know you are not the sort of woman who could sit in church and lie outright to a priest." These last words he delivered with a smile that calmed her racing heart. Whatever the haughty ladies in the congregation might say about her behind her back, it would seem that Father Morton at least was not swayed by their poor opinion of her.

"He's been a great help to me, Father," she confessed. "Without him I would have lost the farm months ago. And he's kind to my children, and he has not once done anything...untoward."

"And what does he gain, Jean, from staying with you?"

Jean had been asking herself that very same question from the moment Lucien first offered to stay on and help her with the work. It was clear to her how their relationship benefited her family, but a man like Lucien surely had so many better opportunities to seek his fortune elsewhere.

"He needs money," she said at last. "He has a daughter, but she was lost during the war. He has people helping him search for her, and when he finds her he'll need money to bring her home."

It seemed a feeble excuse to Jean's own ears; a man with Lucien's background and education could certainly make a great deal more money in another profession, certainly had no need to waste his time slaving away on a failing farm. Father Morton did not seem to share her confusion as regarded Lucien's motives, however; he was still smiling that same soft smile.

"This daughter of his, how old is she?"

Jean stared at the old man, suddenly horrified to realize she did not know the answer. Though Lucien had spoken to her of his little Li a time or two it was clear that in his mind the girl was still a toddler, though so many years had passed since he'd last seen her.

"You have a daughter, don't you, Mrs. Beazley?"

And all at once, Jean realized exactly what the old priest was about to say.

"We all have needs, my dear, and some of them are harder to fulfill than others. You say that Lucien is trying to find his child, that he wants to bring her home. Perhaps while he waits for news of her he may draw some comfort from the kindness of your family. You can see to the needs of his heart while he helps you sustain your own more practical needs. And this is no bad thing, Mrs. Beazely."

To her horror, Jean felt tears welling in the corners of her eyes. She had known that Lucien was lonely, that he drank rather more than was wise, that sometimes when he looked at Lily his eyes appeared so hopeless that it tugged at her heartstrings, but she had never truly considered just how much Lucien stood to gain from spending time with her little family, just how much comfort they might offer to him as he floated along, lost and lonesome. It was a kind thought, a gentle one, and while it served to reassure her that she was doing the right thing in allowing him to stay, it likewise stoked the flames of her ire, as she thought of all the people who might see such an innocent arrangement and proclaim it improper.

"We're just trying to carry on," she said despondently. "We aren't trying to offend anyone, and we certainly haven't done anything wrong, but-"

"But still, people who do not understand may view your situation and draw the wrong conclusions," Father Morton cut across her smoothly. "We must all of us be aware of the face we present to the world," he continued. "We are the hands of God on earth, and we are bound to comport ourselves as representatives of him and his will. Even the appearance of wrongdoing in the life of a member of the Church may be sufficient to damage our ministry."

Jean stared at him, stricken. Surely he wasn't suggesting-

"I cannot tell you what to do, Mrs. Beazley," the old man told her. "You must look into your heart, and do what you feel is right. Sometimes the path that God has chosen for us is difficult for an outside observer to understand.  _Doing_ good, however, is always more righteous than  _appearing_ to do good."

"Right," Jean said slowly.

The old priest smiled, and reached for her hand. "Pray with me," he murmured.

And so Jean closed her eyes, and prayed, silently asking for guidance, for reassurance, for the strength to stand firm despite the whispers, for the fortitude to provide the grace that Lucien needed while denying her own yearnings. It would be a difficult road to walk, but Jean was determined to do what was best for all of them. For now, as far as she was concerned, the best thing for her family, and for Lucien, was that they all remain together.


	18. Chapter 18

_4 May 1946_

"You seem happy, Lucien," his father told him softly, smiling at him over the rim of his teacup.

They were sitting together in the kitchen of his old family home, the sounds of the children playing merrily in the sitting room forming a cheery counterpoint to the rain that lashed the windows. As he did most Saturdays Lucien had come to have tea and a quiet chat with his father, and, as they did most Saturdays, the children had stayed behind with him while Jean went to run her errands in town. Saturday had rather quickly become Lucien's favorite day of the week. With winter on its way Mark Dempster no longer required Lucien's occasional assistance, and so he was free to spend his time as he wished. Jean often visited Father Morton for confession on Saturdays, and rather than leaving the children behind, it made sense that they should all go into Ballarat together. Though Lucien had been somewhat uneasy the first time he showed up at his father's door with the three Beazley children in tow, he had been pleasantly surprised by how warmly his father regarded the little ones, and how quickly they had all taken to one another. On fine days the children romped through the garden while the Blake men watched them with fond smiles on their faces, but today the weather had been far too inhospitable for a game of footie on the grass. Instead Thomas had gone rummaging through an upstairs room and returned with a pile of books and toys that had belonged to young Lucien, and the children set to with a will.

Thinking about those children, about how strange it was to return to this place and find his father so changed, made it all the harder for Lucien to respond to the indirect question he'd just been asked.

 _Was_  he happy? Was this what happiness felt like, the calluses on his hands, the sound of Jack's voice, a quiet cup of tea with his father? Was it even possible for a man like Lucien, a man who had endured so much, lost so much, to feel happy in a moment like this, when he was surrounded by goodness and yet his heart was a thousand miles away, perishing for want of his own child?

The last five months had traversed a long and winding road for Lucien Blake. Grief and heartbreak and wild, fervent hope had change the course of his life utterly, had carried him from the barracks in Melbourne back to his hometown, had brought him out of loneliness and misery into the company of the sweet little family that had become almost as dear to him as his own. He had discovered that Jean had never scorned him, had found his father kind and welcoming, had learned the ins and outs of farming, had found joy in simple pleasures he'd never taken the time for, before. Through it all the loss of his wife, the knowledge that she had met such an untimely end, the gaping hole in his heart where Mei Lin and Li used to reside had plagued him, had struck him down on bright sunny days and left him reaching for the bottle under his makeshift bed. There had been moments, though, moments of happiness, of joy. Smiles had graced his face as he spoke to Jean, as he looked after her children, as the cows came to him in the morning and butted him softly with their heads when he called out to them. The brilliance of a sunrise and the comfort of a cup of tea had soothed him. Perhaps that was the answer, then. Perhaps happiness was not a state of being, but rather a series of kind moments in an otherwise troublesome world.

"I'm well," he answered at long last, not wanting to explain the meandering path his thoughts had taken, and yet wanting to be as honest as he could. Across the table Thomas just nodded, almost as if he'd understood.

"Patrick Tyneman has asked after you," Thomas continued after a moment, and whatever sense of calm and contentment Lucien had been feeling evaporated all at once. For five long months he had been in Ballarat, and yet for the most part he had managed to keep his presence there something of a secret. Mark Dempster and his farmhands were not a particularly loquacious bunch, and they never seemed to take much interest in him, the somewhat hapless doctor-turned farmer who joined them periodically as they toiled in the fields. He had not spent much time in town, had not once gone to church with Jean or stopped to chat with an old acquaintance on Lydiard Street. His anonymity had been well and truly and destroyed by his introduction to Mary Ann Douglas back in March, and though Jean had never said as much he imagined that people must be talking, about the younger Blake making himself at a home with a recently-widowed but distractingly beautiful young woman. The very thought of anyone saying anything uncharitable about Jean made his blood boil, and yet he knew that it was not his father's fault, and he tried his best to keep his temper in check.

"Dad," he started to say, a note of warning in his tone, but Thomas barreled on in a way that reminded Lucien rather forcefully of how so many of their arguments had begun when he was a young man.

"He was wondering why we didn't see you for Anzac day. Jean was there, with the children."

Lucien just grunted and took a sip of his tea. No, he had not come out to march for Anzac day, though the Beazley family had dressed in their finest clothes and Jean had pinned Christopher's medals to her jacket, tears sparkling like diamonds in the corners of her eyes. He couldn't bear it, somehow; the thought of all the friends he had lost, the families that had been forever changed by grief, the thought of standing there tall and proud as if he had accomplished something greater than simply surviving atrocity turned his stomach. Perhaps the cause had been just, but Lucien had seen too much horror to celebrate his part in it. That was hardly something he could tell his father, however, though it seemed Thomas wasn't really expecting a response from him.

"And he was wondering why you've decided to work on the farm, instead of going into practice. The hospital is in need of good surgeon, Lucien. Patrick sits on the board, perhaps he could-"

"No," Lucien said, far more sharply than he meant to. "Thank you," he added quickly, trying to soften the blow.

Truth was, just the thought of stepping once more into theater had set his hands to shaking. Lucien had loved being a doctor, truly he had, and he found that the more time he spent with his hands in the dirt the steadier they became; he did harbor hopes of one day returning to medicine, of healing people, instead of hurting them. Not now, though, not just yet, not when the nightmares still plagued him, when he woke in the stillness just before dawn with the scent of blood in his nose and the sound of screams in his ears.

"Really, Lucien," Thomas said in a tone of voice that he probably intended to sound reassuring but just came off patronizing instead, "you've done a good thing, helping Jean find her feet, but surely she won't need you much longer. With winter coming on there won't be so much work to do, and now that the war is ended there will be plenty of help available to her come spring. I don't know why you insist-"

Before Thomas could speak another word there came a sharp rap upon the door, and Lucien gave thanks for small mercies. His father meant well, he knew, was trying to encourage him, to help him find his path, to settle down, but Lucien was not prepared to entertain the notion of leaving Jean just yet. Things were...comfortable, between them. He knew what she expected of him, now, and he cherished the time he spent with her family, and he rather enjoyed the numbness that settled over him when at last he sought his bed at the end of a day of hard, honest work. Life on the farm had calmed him, and he was not ready to give it up.

Thomas had risen from his chair and gone to the little door on the other side of the kitchen at once, swinging it open to reveal Jean, looking somewhat haggard as she fiddled about with her old umbrella.

"Mrs. Beazley," Thomas greeted her pilotely. "Do come in."

"Thank you, Doctor Blake," Jean answered, abandoning her umbrella for the relative comforts of Thomas's kitchen.

As he looked at her, Lucien could not help but think of his conversation with his father, the unspoken question -  _why are you doing this -_ still lingering in the air between them. Much as he was loath to admit it, much as he hated himself for the yearnings of his heart, he could not deny that his primary motivation in staying on the farm was the desire he felt to remain close to Jean. She was still the loveliest girl he had ever known; even now, when she was bedraggled from the rain and her trek through town, when her hair was damp and mussed, her lithe frame hidden beneath an old blue coat, she was truly, impossibly beautiful. The fineness of her features, the brilliance of her eyes, the softness of her voice, the warmth of her hands; everything about her called to him. He had been without his wife for four long years now, and though for much of that time he had harbored the hope of seeing her again, the truth was she had long since become no more than a face in a faded photograph to him. Time had dulled his memories of his life before the war, though the pain still cut through him now and again. Jean, though; Jean was real, and here, and she looked after him with such tender regard that in quiet moments he could almost believe that she cared as much for him as he did for her.

"Won't you stay for lunch, Mrs. Beazely?" Thomas asked, ushering her into a chair beside Lucien. "You can take some time to warm up, get yourself sorted."

Jean beamed at him. "That would be lovely Doctor Blake, thank you," she answered softly.

She was so  _close,_ sitting there beside him; ordinarily they did not sit in such close proximity. At mealtimes they sat opposite one another at either end of the table, and when they shared a nightcap on Saturday evenings Lucien always sat on the sofa, while Jean curled herself into the armchair. Was it a conscious choice on her part, Lucien wondered now as his eyes travelled over her, taking in the line of her profile, watching her shrug out of her coat and reveal the simple but neatly tailored blouse she wore beneath; did Jean elect to create such distance between them because she did not want him near, or because she feared what might happen should they draw too close? Did she sometimes feel that old familiar desire up well up within her heart, as Lucien did, and curse herself for it?

He would never know, for he rather felt that there were some questions he was better off not knowing the answer to.

"Mum!" came a delighted voice from the doorway, and the next moment Lily was rushing into the room, wedging herself between Lucien and Jean to show her mother the book she'd been reading. As she chatted animatedly Jean smiled at her daughter with all the gentleness of a mother's heart, reaching out absently to smooth back an errant blonde curl as it fell across the girl's face. Lucien had been privy to a thousand such moments of maternal affection between Jean and each of her children, and yet it never ceased to touch his heart. He recalled all too well the sweet sunny days his family had spent together in Singapore, the way his heart would fill full to bursting with love of his daughter when little Li clambered into his lap, when he watched Mei Lin with her, plaiting her hair or singing silly little songs. He missed his family with a ferocity that left him aching, and watching Jean with her own children soothed and distressed him in equal measure. Perhaps it was that visceral reminder of everything he could have had, everything he had lost; if only Jean had gotten his letter, perhaps this could have been  _their_ family, and not hers alone. And yet she never had, and his family was lost, and Jean's husband was lost, and there would never be a place for Lucien by her side.

He turned away, and caught his father in the act of staring at the three of them - Lucien, Lily, and Jean - with a speculative look upon his face. The moment Thomas noticed Lucien's gaze he gave a weak little smile and turned his attentions once more to preparing lunch for the six of them, but the memory of it lingered, and left Lucien ill at ease.

* * *

It was later, much later, that same night, after the children had been put to bed, when Lucien carried a glass of whiskey and a glass of sherry into the sitting room. Jean was waiting for him, curled in the armchair by the fire with a blanket over her lap while still the rain fell in sheets beyond the foggy windows.

"Thank you, Lucien," she said, reaching out to accept her drink. They clinked their glasses together once in silent toast to one another, to having survived another day, and then Lucien stepped away to collapse onto the sofa. The sitting room was warm and cozy, and Jean was so very lovely, and the last thing he wanted to do was make his way out into the rain, shuffle back into the barn to lie cold beneath his blankets in his exile's bed.

"You've been quiet today," Jean observed gently, a question in her glorious eyes, and Lucien tried to remain calm in the face of her obvious concern. Yes, he had been quiet today, staring out at the greyness of the world beyond the little farmhouse, thinking of the approaching winter, thinking on his father's words. Would Jean have need of him, when there was no work to be done around the farm? How long could he really expect to take advantage of her hospitality?

It would not do to breathe life into such unkind thoughts, and so aloud he said only, "It's been so long since I've had news from Hong Kong, that's all." It was true enough, and though it was not the only thing concerning him at present, it was the only thing Jean needed to know about. "Derek said he had a contact who would write to me, but I haven't heard anything, and I don't know who else to write to."

"I can't imagine," Jean said with a little sigh, reaching out to pick absently at the edge of her fraying blanket. "You must be so frustrated."

Lucien grunted;  _yes_ , he was bloody frustrated. He was frustrated by his lack of answers as regarded the whereabouts of his child, frustrated by his own failings as a man and a doctor, frustrated by the proximity of a beautiful woman whose company he treasured and yet who could never be more than a friend to him, no matter how he might wish things could be different. Everything about his life was frustrating, at present, but none of it was Jean's fault - at least, not directly - and so he tried to speak kindly to her.

"I just hate the waiting," he agreed. "You know patience has never been one of my strong suits."

Jean laughed, just a little, and he smiled thinly, and the moment passed, as so many of their awkward moments did, unremarked upon and yet weighing upon them both. The silence was loaded tonight, too heavy for Lucien to bear; the flickering of the firelight set Jean's hair to shining like burnished copper, drew his attention to the curve of her full lips, the elegant line of her neck, fondly remembered places where he had once lost himself, and he cast about for something to say to ease the tension that coiled inside him tight as a spring.

"Do you think the rain will stop any time soon?"

The ins and outs of the weather were hardly his forte, but he had discovered that it was a favorite topic of conversation amongst the local farmers, and he hoped it would be safe ground for he and Jean this evening.

Apparently he was wrong, however, for at his question Jean's brow furrowed and she took a long sip of her drink before squaring her shoulders like a woman about to face the gallows.

"About that, Lucien," she began somewhat uncomfortably, and he braced himself for what was to come, thinking that moment had surely arrived when she would tell him that with winter coming on she had no more need of him, that he would have to seek lodging elsewhere. "In a few weeks it will be too cold for you to stay out in the barn."

 _She's right, you know,_ he told himself sternly.  _Don't be cross with her. She's already given you so much more than you deserve._

"I know it isn't ideal," she continued, "but I was thinking that maybe you ought to sleep in here, instead. You could sleep on the sofa, or if that doesn't work perhaps we could rearrange the furniture, and set your bed in that corner there."

Lucien Blake was not often left speechless, but her suggestion had surprised him so thoroughly that he found he could do nothing more than gape at her. Jean's cheeks were flaming pink but the stubborn tilt of her jaw told him that she would not be dissuaded. She had made up her mind, and offered him this kindness without expecting anything else in return, and the thought of her gentle goodness was very nearly enough to make him weep. It would be its own special kind of torture, he knew, falling asleep in this room, knowing that Jean was just down the corridor, all alone in that big empty bed, but she had a point. Winter was coming, and already the barn was damned uncomfortable.

"I don't want to put you out, Jean," he said slowly, trying to think his way through the problem, trying to sort out the tumult of his feelings.

"You wouldn't be," she insisted. "We could bring your trunk in here, so you have your clothes and things. I know there's not much space, but I hate the thought of you staying out there in the cold."

For a long moment he was silent as if considering her proposal, but the truth was his mind was already made up. It would be churlish of him to throw her generosity back in her face, and in truth he wanted nothing more than to be in this house, with her, with the children, to be a part of her world, however much it might pain him.

"Thank you, Jean," he said at last. "I think that would be wonderful."


	19. Chapter 19

_16 May 1946_

It was almost two weeks since Lucien had left behind his exile's bed in the barn in favor of sleeping on the worn out old sofa in the sitting room. Though at first he had been deeply worried about the sustainability of the situation, given the nightmares that still plagued him on occasion and the way he had come to rely on a fair bit of whiskey to lull him into insensibility before bed, he had thus far managed to keep from disturbing the Beazley family. For the most part, that is, for in truth the first morning in the house had started off quite uncomfortably when he had gone shuffling off to the loo and been greeted by the sound of Jean's shrill shrieking and the briefest glimpse of her pale skin before he slammed the door shut again. Lucien had learned his lesson, however, and had that very morning offered to install a lock upon the door. The suggestion was met with grateful - if somewhat exasperated - agreement from Jean, and there had been no more improper early morning encounters. He often told the children stories before bed, sitting there on the sofa in the evenings while Jean watched fondly from the armchair, and she often joined him after the children had been put to bed, though she enjoyed a cup tea rather than sherry on weeknights. He had not called out in the darkness - yet - and he had managed to keep his whiskey close at hand, buried in the bottom of the old cedar chest where he kept his few belongings, and in this fashion they had continued on quite happily for a time. Lucien's luck, however, was about to run out.

It was a Thursday evening, and a gentle rain was falling outside. The work was done, dinner had been eaten and enjoyed by all, the dishes were washed, and the five of them had once more gathered in the sitting room, the little ones having made an unruly pile on the floor where they were attempting to play a game of pontoon, though there seemed to be much disagreement among them as regarded the rules, and they refused to accept any advice from the adults who watched them fondly.

Lucien had spent the day in town, running a few errands for Jean and stopping by the bank to deposit the bills he'd painstakingly collected in his little jar. The sum was not so very great, but he had been working for five months now, and he had saved up enough to entrust it to someone else for safe keeping. His father kept making noises about paying him a stipend, supplementing his wages until he found work elsewhere, but Lucien continued to wave him off. All in all his circumstances were not so terribly dire, and he was not used to taking advantage of his father's charity.

While in Ballarat, however, Lucien had crossed paths with Patrick Tyneman, and their brief conversation had left him somewhat rattled. Patrick was, as he always had been, portly and patronizing, reminding Lucien that he served on the hospital board and that work could always be found for a capable surgeon.

" _And," Patrick added, watching him with those hawk's eyes, "your father isn't a young man anymore, Lucien. Perhaps you could take over his duties as police surgeon."_

_Lucien fought the urge to roll his eyes, trying to remind himself that Patrick likely did not mean any disrespect to Lucien or his father. Before he could politely decline the offer, however, Patrick was speaking again, and what he said next made Lucien's blood boil._

" _I know it isn't my place," he said, though his tone was far more authoritative than his words, "but really, don't you think it's time you found somewhere else to stay? I know it's been a few months now, but it's all anyone is talking about. Mrs. Beazley is a fine woman, and while I hate to hear anyone make unkind assumptions about her character, you must understand how it looks. You're both widowed, and-"_

" _And nothing, Patrick," Lucien cut him off with a ferocity that he knew would only serve to reinforce Patrick's suspicions, and yet he could not seem to stop himself. "Mrs. Beazley and I have absolutely nothing to be ashamed of. There is nothing improper-"_

" _Oh, come now, Lucien," it was Patrick's turn to be indignant. "She's a beautiful woman, you're a young man, still, you must understand-"_

" _I've said all I mean to say on the subject."_

_With those words Lucien turned smartly on his heel and walked away, his heart pounding in his chest. No, they had done nothing wrong, and yet he could not help but feel as if Patrick were right. It was unkind of him to put Jean in this position, to give anyone reason to talk about her, and the truth was that she was a beautiful woman, and he would have happily tumbled into her bed at the first opportunity. No such offer had been made, of course, nor would it, not while she was still grieving for her husband, but the truth remained. Lucien wanted her, desperately. And she was so very close…_

They could not continue on this way forever, and yet as he sat there, leaning against the side of the sofa, watching the children playing their game, watching the gentle flicker of the firelight on Jean's face, he could not find the strength to leave. There was a beauty to this life, a gentleness, that called to him, that soothed him. He was happy here, and he rather thought that Jean and the children were as well, and as long as Jean was content to have him he knew that he would stay. Any alternative was unthinkable.

The card game on the floor was beginning to grow quite rowdy indeed and the late autumn sun had sunk below the horizon, and so Lucien decided to take it upon himself to begin the bedtime ritual.

"Well now," he said, leaning down so that he was close to young Christopher, interrupting an argument as regarded Jack's latest move, "it's almost time for bed, you lot. Would like to hear a story before you go?"

Jean was smiling at him approvingly, and he tried not to draw too much pleasure from that fact. She had taken a great risk in letting him in, allowing him to grow so close to her children, and he was determined to prove himself worthy of her trust. Even if it cut him to the quick, sometimes, to think how much he cared for this little family, to think that he had no place in it, not truly. She was not his wife, and they were not his children. Where was Li now, he wondered as the card game was abandoned so that his audience could turn and stare at him in rapt attention; was she lonesome in some soulless orphanage? Had she been taken in by a kind family? Was she loved, was she well, was she healthy, was she safe? Was there another man, somewhere deep in the heart of China, who told his daughter a story each night before she sought her bed? For her sake he prayed it was so; she was a child, still, and she deserved such gentle care.

He wove another tale about brave knights and daring deeds until Jack's eyes began to droop, and then Jean unfolded herself from the armchair and whisked the little ones off to bed, leaving Lucien to his meandering thoughts.

* * *

It was a soft sound; Jean might not have heard it at all had she been sleeping, but though her eyes were closed she had not yet drifted off into dreams. Still, though it had been months since she'd learned of her bereavement, she found it difficult to turn her mind off at the end of the day, haunted by regrets and the thought of Lucien so close to hand, her heart filled with grief and yearning in almost equal measure. As it was she was still awake enough to hear it, to recognize the sound of someone weeping.

She was out of bed in a moment, sliding her faded grey dressing gown on over her nightdress, slipping out of her room on silent feet. As soon as she stepped into the corridor she realized that the sound was not coming from the boys' room, as she'd originally thought, and she stood frozen for a moment, trying to decide what to do.

It was Lucien who was weeping, who was making those soft sounds of distress that had roused her mother's heart and drawn her out of bed at once. Jean had no idea what she ought to do; it wouldn't be proper, she knew, to come to him like this, dressed in her pajamas with her hair loose and wild and no makeup upon her face, when he was lying in the sitting room in his own soft sleeping clothes. With the exception of one embarrassing encounter in the loo they had avoided one another in the darkness, and he was not calling out to her now, had not requested her presence. He was not making so very much noise, and she didn't think he would wake the children, but somehow she could not turn away. Whatever the cause Lucien was in some distress, and she could not bear the thought of leaving him alone. Perhaps it would be too much, would be crossing one of the lines they'd drawn between them by unspoken agreement to protect their hearts and their fragile reputations, but she cared for him too much to deny him comfort now, when he seemed to need it most.

And so she squared her shoulders, and marched right into the sitting room. It had been her intention to speak as soon as she reached him, to announce her arrival and ask if he had need of her, but she pulled up short in the doorway, quite surprised to find that Lucien was still asleep. He had cast off his blanket and twisted himself round and round until his shirt was rucked up enough to show off some of the scars that scored the tanned flesh of his back, glistening terribly in the feeble light from the dying fire. Jean had seen his scars before, of course, when he was working in the fields, peaking out from beneath his singlet or on full display when he pulled his sweat-stained shirt away and mopped at his brow in the summer sun. It was different, somehow, seeing them now when he was prone and vulnerable, and weeping in his sleep. His soft blonde hair was growing, long enough to show just a bit of curl now, to fall wildly all around his face. He was moving restlessly, and for a moment she was truly concerned that he might fall right onto the floor if she did not go to him. She would have to wake him, to remind him where he was, to banish whatever demons had come to haunt him while he slept. With his wife dead and gone, his child missing, the story of the horror he had endured written upon his skin, Jean knew that he muse have his fair share of troubles to plague him in the darkness, and though her own grief seemed small in comparison, she fancied she had some idea what he was feeling.

In a moment she was by his side, reaching out to place a gentle hand upon his shoulder.

"Lucien," she called his name softly, " _Lucien._ It's all right. You're all-"

Before she could speak another word he snapped as if she had struck him, big hands rising up at once to catch hold of her, and quite before she knew what was happening she found herself tumbling over him.

" _Lucien,"_ she hissed, trying to get free, trying not to wake the children, but it was of no use. He was bigger than she, and far stronger, and in the grip of some terrible fear. They wrangled together for a moment, and somehow Jean wound up wedged between the back of the sofa and the broad expanse of Lucien's solid chest. His grip on her was almost painfully tight, his expression agonized, and so Jean did the only thing she could think to do, restrained as she was by his bulk.

She pinched him, hard, on the side.

Lucien yelped and his eyes flew open at once, unfocused and glazed by a sheen of pain that Jean knew she had not caused. They were lying flush together, one of his legs cast over her hip, one of his arms under her head and the other wrapped tight around her waist, her arms trapped between them, his face only an inch or two from hers. She could feel the wash of his breath upon her cheek, the heat of him pressed against the length of her body. The sofa was soft at her back, and he was hard and unyielding at her front. He smelled like woodsmoke and whiskey, and he looked so very lost that her heart heart ached for him. Jean trembled at his proximity, recollections of a dozen passionate embraces they'd shared so long ago washing over her at once, igniting an anxious heat low in her belly she was loath to contemplate. This was the very definition of improper, the lines they'd drawn so far behind them now that Jean could no longer see them, and yet she did not push him away. She remained right where she was, drowning in a sea of him.

"Jean?" he breathed her name, confused and exhausted. And though he was awake it seemed that his mind remained in the land of dreams, for he did not release his hold on her.

"It's all right, Lucien," she told him softly, shifting just enough to free one of her hands. Though she knew it was wrong, knew it was the very height of folly, she reached out and cradled his cheek, felt the soft scratch of his beard against her palm. "It was just a dream."

"Oh," he said, his eyes closing again as he drifted away from her. She felt him relax, felt his body grow soft and loose, watched in horror and wretched affection as he lowered his head, coming to rest in the crook of her neck, his nose brushing against her skin. As he drifted away Jean wrapped her arms around him, afraid that he might fall, terrified of the need that swirled inside her, that damning desire to hold him, just a little while longer. Her hands traced soothing circles against his back, lulling him into sleep while she tried to will her frantic mind to stop, to simply enjoy this closeness, as long as it might last.

"You shouldn't be here," he grumbled, clinging to the last shreds of consciousness. When he spoke his lips pressed against the tender skin of her neck, soft and sweet as a kiss.

"No," she agreed, feeling the heat rising in her cheeks. Even half asleep and disoriented from his dreams Lucien knew what she was doing was wrong, and she knew she ought to heed his warning. Carefully she tried to rise, but the arm around her waist tightened, holding her close to him.

"Don't go," he whispered. "Not yet."

"No," she agreed, relieved and ashamed in equal measure. "Not yet."

Jean pressed a gentle kiss against the top of his head, and held him tight. It had been twelve years since last she'd been this close to him, but somehow it felt as if no time had passed at all; she could remember every taste of her first love as fresh as if they'd only just met, and it was too beautiful a moment for her to abandon it. For the first time in a very long time Jean allowed the urgings of her heart to silence the wisdom of her head, and remained right where she wanted to be, warm and safe in Lucien's embrace.  _Just for a little while,_ she told herself.  _Just a little while longer._


	20. Chapter 20

_17 May 1946_

It was a gentle hand on his shoulder that roused Lucien from sleep. He was warm and terribly comfortable, and if he had been plagued by foul dreams he could not recall them, for which he was very grateful. He lifted his head and opened his eyes, expecting to see Jean with the children trailing sleepily behind her, the way he did every morning. To his great surprise, however, it was not Mrs. Beazley who had woken with her gentle smile and her promises of breakfast once the cows were milked; it was little Lily, her blonde curls all in a tumble, still dressed in her pajamas and watching him with a troubled expression upon her face.

The cause for her concern was readily apparent as Lucien became aware of his surroundings; he was lying on his side and there next to him, squashed between the sofa and his own chest, was Jean. Her head was pillowed on his arm, both of her legs wrapped around one of his thighs, her arms holding him though she appeared to still be sleeping, her face soft and gentle and lovely, inches away from his own. Their bodies were impossibly tangled, for there really wasn't enough room on that sofa for two people to sleep together comfortably, and everywhere they touched Lucien felt the heat of her, felt the want that pulsed through his veins, felt his heart breaking at the thought that he had finally been given the chance to hold his Jean once more, only to find the circumstances truly unbearable. He could not recall how she had come to him, or when, or why, could not remember a moment of their falling together like this, and he cursed himself for it, for the whiskey he'd tossed back before he laid down to sleep, for the fickle games his memory played on him. Jean was glorious, really, lean and lithe and moulded to him, and if it were not for Lily staring down at him uncomprehendingly he might well have closed his eyes and lowered his head and remained right where he was, lost in the blissful paradise of  _Jean._ As it was, however, he knew he needed to move, and quickly.

As carefully as he could he disentangled himself from Jean, gently laying her head down upon the sofa, sliding himself out from beneath her, around her, so as not to wake her. A soft, sleepy sound of distress escaped her, but she did not wake, and Lucien gave thanks for that small mercy. When he was standing he looked at Lily, watching him with those big blue eyes, a thousand questions swirling there, and took a very deep breath. He lifted a single finger to his lips, asking for quiet, while he extended his free hand to the little girl. After a moment in which Lucien's every hope and dream seemed to hang in the balance - for really, all it would have taken to rouse Jean and send Lucien packing would be one unhappy shout from Lily - she took his hand, and allowed him to lead her silently out of the house. He closed the door behind them without a sound, and then sat down on the front steps, trying to marshall his thoughts as Jean's daughter sat down beside him.

Beyond the dirt path and fallow fields of the farm the autumn sun was rising, painting everything warm and bright and bringing life back into the dim grey world. It was a beautiful sight, really, sunrise on the farm, and any other day Lucien would have enjoyed, very much, sitting there with Lily and watching it all happen, though he would have prefered a cup of tea to keep his hands warm. He cast about, trying to find some innocuous excuse to explain away his unusual sleeping arrangements when Lily spoke.

"Lucien," she said slowly, in a quiet, uncertain little voice. The chickens clucked morosely from their little house off to the side, but otherwise the world was all in silence, still, and Lily, like Lucien, seemed loath to break that tranquil spell. "Why was mum sleeping on the sofa?"

The truth was, Lucien had no idea how to answer that question. He did not know why Jean had come to him, though he could guess. How could he respond, explain to an eleven year old little girl all the twistings and turnings of the road that had led Jean to his side? How to explain the loneliness, the emptiness, the horror, the burning need to touch, to be touched, to know and be known? How to explain the vast yawning chasm left by a love torn away too soon? How to explain duty and fidelity and the ties that bound people together, through life and after death? There were too many questions, the conversation laid out before him like a minefield. And yet, he was quite fond of little Lily, and he knew that he owed it to her - and to her mother - to handle her question gently, to tell her as much of the truth as he dared, to put her fears to rest and yet preserve the dignity of the two adults with whom she spent most of her time.

"Well," he said slowly, "she was trying to help me."

No, he could not recall why Jean had come to him, but he knew enough about himself, and about her, to make an educated guess.

"You know I fought in the war."

Lily looked up at him, eyes huge and scared, but she nodded once in understanding.

"It was a terrible time," he told her truthfully. "I saw some very scary things, and sometimes I still dream about them."

"Jack used to have bad dreams all the time," she confided in him softly. "He would scream and cry and then mum would take him to sleep in her bed."

Though Lucien's heart ached, to think of Jean all alone in her bed, her arms wrapped around her son, trying to soothe him, to comfort him when she herself was so lost and afraid, he was glad that Lily had brought it up, that already she seemed to know what it was that he was trying to say.

"That's why she stayed with me last night," he told her. It was a kind thought, a gentle one; perhaps Jean would never care for him as deeply as she had done in the past, or at least not in the same way, but she had taken it upon herself to comfort him when he was in need of her. Lucien was quite certain he had never met a more compassionate, more understanding woman than Jean, and he loved her for her tender heart and many other reasons besides. "She came out to talk to me about my dream, and we must have dozed off. That's all."

There was something in the way Lily was looking at him that gave him pause, made him realize that perhaps she was rather more astute than he had previously believed. Perhaps she knew what it meant, when a man and woman slept together, or perhaps she only knew that it was a privilege reserved for married people, but it seemed to Lucien that she did not entirely believe his innocent explanation. He tensed, suddenly terrified at the prospect of having to have a forthright conversation about the things grown ups got up to together in the dark of the night; he was certain he was not prepared to face such a discussion before he'd had his breakfast, but then she said something he did not expect.

"Mum has bad dreams, too," she told him, her voice far too knowing and far too weary for one so young. "She thinks we don't know about it, but I hear her crying sometimes."

Lucien just stared at her, aghast. Most days they managed to play it off, to work hard and eat their meals and spend their evenings in laughter, and through the mundanity of everyday life keep the spectral ghosts of their collective grief at bay. Oh, he and Jean suffered, and shared little glances of understanding, every now then, sat together on Saturday evenings with drinks in hand, staring into the fire and talking about the way things used to be, but while the sun was up and the children were about they played at being happy, at being whole, at being well. And the children seemed to benefit from it, did not seem to spend too long thinking on the father they had lost, the way their lives had changed. After all, they had been without him for four long years already, and likely had quite forgotten what it was like to have him home with them. Lily's words had cut straight through that pretense and told him that she, at least, was well aware of the toll her mother's bereavement had taken.

"She misses your dad," Lucien told her, choking on every word. Yes, Jean missed her Christopher; he saw it in the way she looked at her sons, sometimes, the way she would stop in the middle of her work in the field and cover her mouth with her hand, looking away and trying for all the world not to give into her grief. He saw it in the way she drew closer to him, and then pulled away, reminded each time his hand fell upon her shoulder or the small of her back that his hands were not the ones meant to hold her.

"I miss him, too," Lily said softly. Her blue eyes welled with tears and for a moment when Lucien looked at her he saw his own daughter, lost to him for years now; did she still weep for the father she could barely recall? Did she still hold out hope that he would come back to her one day? Was she living at all?

"Of course you do, love," Lucien said, reaching out to brush her hair back from her face with a gentle hand. She was wise beyond her years, little Lily, always ready and willing to help, always trying hard to be grown up like her mum, ordering the boys about and taking pride in her work, but she was still only a little girl, and she deserved some comfort.

"Can I tell you something?" Lucien continued, taking a deep breath. He had never, not once, spoken to the children of his own family. It seemed too heavy a burden to rest on their little shoulders, the knowledge that theirs was not the only family torn apart grief, the discovery that the world was full of grief and pain, and that light and love were often hard to come by. In this moment, however, he felt Lily deserved to hear it, that she needed to know why exactly Jean and Lucien drew so much comfort from one another.

"I had a wife and daughter, in Singapore," he said. His words took his young charge by surprise, he saw, watching the widening of her eyes, the subtle shifting of the expressions on her face so reminiscent of her mother. "My wife died, during the war, and my little girl was taken from me. I'm trying to get her back, but it's going to take a long time."

"How old is she"? Lily asked at once, the way a child will do, seizing upon what was to her the most important detail of Lucien's story.

"Nine," Lucien answered. "She's nine years old. Her name is Li. You remind me of her sometimes, you know."

"Really?" It sounded as if Lily didn't believe him at all.

"Really," Lucien agreed.

It was true; though it had been so very long since last he'd seen Li, and she had been so much younger then than Lily was now, sometimes he looked at Jean's daughter, and saw his own. Their voices and their mannerisms and their faces were very different, but the fierce urge to protect them, the deep abiding sense of love that Lucien felt when he looked at Lily reminded him of his daughter at every turn. He looked at Lily, and he remembered why he was still in Ballarat, why he was still working so hard, why he continued to survive. It was for the sake of his little girl, his dream, his one greatest hope, but it was a little bit for Lily, too, and for her brothers. It would not do to leave them now, not when they had already suffered so much.

"So you see," he said, wanting to draw their little front porch confessional to a close, "sometimes I get sad because I miss my family. And sometimes your mum gets sad because she misses your dad. We can help each other, because we know what it's like. That's why she stayed with me last night."

"That's good, then," Lily said slowly. "That you can help each other."

"Lily, love?"

The sudden sound of Jean's voice behind them caused them both to jump; neither Lucien nor Lily had heard the door opening, but when he turned his head he saw her, standing there just behind them with the blanket they'd slept under wrapped around her shoulders, her eyes scared but determined as she watched them. Lucien could not say how long she had been standing there, how much of his explanation she had heard, but he hoped it would be enough for her to understand that he was only trying to help, only trying to smooth over any possible strife that Lily discovering them might have caused.

* * *

"Go and get dressed," Jean said, reaching out to run her hand over her daughter's hair. "I'll start on breakfast soon."

"Yes, mum," Lily said at once, jumping to her feet and rushing into the warmth of the house, leaving Lucien and Jean behind to stare at one another, full of doubt in the wake of the night they'd spent together, however chastely.

Jean had heard most of their conversation, having slipped out the door the moment she realized what had happened and where they'd gone. As she looked down at Lucien, his gaze open and honest and full of fear at her possible reaction, any lingering embarrassment she might have felt at spending the night in his arms slowly dissipated, and so she sank down beside him, drawing her knees up to her chest and wrapping her arms around them as she gazed out upon the sunrise.

"Thank you, Lucien," she told him, wondering if he knew what she meant, that she wasn't just thanking him for handling Lily so delicately but for the way he had held her, for the way he had not scorned her, for the way he had given her a safe place to land the night before. She was thanking him for all the hard work he'd done, for helping to save her farm, for keeping her company through the loneliest days of her life. She was thanking him for coming back to her, for staying this time, for being and good and kind and strong, still, after everything. And in a way she was thanking him for Lily; Lucien had given her a wonderful gift in the form of their beautiful daughter, even if he did not know it, even if she was determined to never tell him the truth. And even if he never discovered his connection to her, Lucien had treated Lily so gently that it nearly brought tears to her eyes, to think of everything that could have been, if only.

"It was my pleasure, Jean," came his rumbling answer.

And then, because she was tired, because it was a beautiful morning, because he was there, warm and solid sitting beside her, Jean turned and rested her head against his shoulder. Lucien slid his arm around her and held her close, let her draw what comfort she could from him, from his silence, from the strength of his body. Something had changed between them last night; Jean could feel it in the way he touched her, in the way she did not shy away from him. Oh, the same constraints remained; they were still both freshly widowed, still clinging to the memories of the people who had shared their beds, and Lucien was still bound by duty to find his daughter, still free to leave Jean at any moment, almost certainly should word ever come to him that his little Li was safe and still living. He was still Doctor Blake's son, and she was still a farmgirl, and propriety and society and the shame Jean carried deep in her heart, knowing that Lucien was Lily's father and having not told him yet, still meant that they would never, could never be a suitable match for one another. But this much they could do, could sit quietly together and watch the sunrise and soothe one another's battered hearts, and so they did.


	21. Chapter 21

_8 June 1946_

It had been a strange few weeks for Lucien. Waking up to Jean's embrace, the warmth of her, the softness of her, the scent of her hair every bit as lovely, as overpowering, as utterly enchanting as he recalled, had made all his attempts to keep his distance, to keep their relationship friendly and uncomplicated, a thousand times more difficult. She had been kind to him, following the night they'd spent together, had come to him that morning with a gentle look upon her face and trusted him enough to rest her head upon his shoulder, his heart singing at the contact. Perhaps she felt it, too, the subtle, seismic shifting of the ground beneath their feet. Perhaps as she felt his arms around her she had felt her own burdens lift, the way Lucien's had done. Perhaps there was a piece of her, however small, that  _wanted_ , just as he did; perhaps after everything they had shared in the last six months, after all they had learned, after they had been stripped of their illusions and forced to face one another head on, she was left with the same longing that haunted him in the long dark hours of the night.

Then again, perhaps not. Lucien had not forgotten Lily's quiet confession;  _she thinks we don't know about it,_ the little girl had told him solemnly,  _but I hear her crying sometimes._ Whatever Jean and Lucien were to one another, Jean still grieved for her husband, and Lucien felt the sharp sting of guilt each time a day passed and he did not think of his wife. He had done his mourning for Mei Lin, had spent years wishing for her, had spent months in Melbourne cursing cruel fate for taking her from him, had come to this farm and taken his place beside Jean in the fields and slowly allowed himself to let go of his memories of his wife. Mei Lin had not been a saint, of course, their marriage no more perfect than anyone else's, but she had been  _his,_ and she was gone, and some days he rather felt that she deserved more than a husband who had already forgotten her. And yet his thoughts did not turn to her so very often, these days; He could only dimly recall the sound of her voice, having not heard it echoing in his ears for more than four years, and had it not been for the small photo of his family that had been salvaged from his things in Singapore and delivered to him in Melbourne, he would likely have forgotten her face as well. Time had dulled the sting of the pain, for he had long since learned how to live without her. It would seem that Jean, however, was still missing her husband fiercely, and Lucien did not dare intrude upon such grief unasked.

And so he waited, and worked with her, and ate his meals across the table from her, and tried to ignore the sound of his heart crying out for her.

On Saturday, as ever, he went to his father's house and, as ever, the Beazley children accompanied him while Jean set out to run her errands in town and make her confession to the priest. Lucien and Thomas were sitting together over cups of tea in his father's study, discussing the weather and what would become of the farm in winter, when Lily came tearing into the room with tears in the corners of her eyes, her brothers trailing close behind her, the three of them bringing with them a cacophony of words as they tumbled over one another, each trying to explain what had happened before one of the others could implicate them in any mischief.

Lucien was on his feet in a moment, rushing to Lily's side, trying to calm the racing of his heart as she lifted her bloodstained little hand for his inspection. His own hands trembled, as he carefully took hold of her, inspecting her wound. It was a minor injury, and indeed as Lucien led her over to the little exam table it became apparent that it was fear, more than pain, that caused her to weep so.

"It was Jack's idea-"

"No, it wasn't! Lily said-"

"They know we're not supposed to go in there, Doctor Blake-"

"It was only for a second!"

"I told you not to-"

"Boys," Thomas cut across them quickly, stilling the tumult of their explanations in a moment. "That's quite enough of that. Why don't we go into the sitting room, and then you can tell me what happened?"

The little ones hung their heads in shame but followed along docile as chastised puppies as Thomas swept from the room, leaving Lucien to tend to his young charge and the rather sizable splinter embedded in her palm. Lucien smiled down at her, blue eyes wide and bottom lip quivering as she prepared herself for the thrashing she no doubt thought was coming. Lucien had no intention of shouting at her, however; very carefully he caught her in his arms and lifted her up to sit upon the table, and once she was settled he gathered together the things he would need to remove the splinter and clean her hand.

"Do you want to tell me what happened, Lily?" he asked her kindly when he came back to her side. His heart was still racing; the sight of blood left him faintly nauseous, but Lily was fine, really, and it would be no difficult thing to patch her up. This wasn't really doctoring, as far as he was concerned; this was more the work of a father than a surgeon, and he had rather a lot of experience at tending to frightened little girls and all their scrapes and bruises.

"It's my fault," she wailed. "Jack said we should go into the sunroom and Christopher said we shouldn't but I wanted to see the flowers and then we went and we were playing but I fell and my hand scraped the table-"

"It's all right," Lucien shushed her as her voice grew ever more shrill and distressed. "You aren't in trouble, Lily. And this will be over in a tick, you'll see."

She was still shaking like a leaf, but she watched, fascinated as Lucien explained to her exactly what he was doing, as he extracted the sliver from the old wooden table and then cleaned the cut before applying a plaster. He had suggested to her once that she might become a nurse, and her interest in the proceedings gave him hope that perhaps that was not such an unlikely goal for her; very few children, in his experience, enjoyed spending time on a doctor's table surrounded by medical equipment, but Lily seemed enthralled by the whole experience.

"There we are," Lucien said, dropping a kiss against her plaster for good measure. "Good as new. And you won't go in the sunroom again, will you?"

"I won't, Lucien, I promise," she vowed, and with those word she jumped down from the table and rushed out to join her brothers, Lucien turning to watch her with a fond smile on his face. He stopped short at the sight of his father leaning in the doorway, however. There was a troubled expression on Thomas Blake's face, and the anxiety Lucien had only just managed to quell returned in full force as he wondered what could possibly concern his father so. In silence Thomas closed the door behind Lily, leaving the pair of them alone in the surgery, facing off for what purpose Lucien could not say.

"I have to ask you, son," Thomas said at last, his voice heavy, full of sorrow.

_What on earth?_ Lucien wondered, staring at his father in silent apprehension. They had been enjoying a rather pleasant morning together before this interruption, their conversation of no particular consequence, and Lucien could not imagine that the boys would have revealed anything damning enough to cause his father such distress. What could have transpired, in the last five minutes, to account for the sudden tension in the room, the weary set of his father's shoulders?

"Is that girl your daughter?"

Lucien actually laughed out loud. He couldn't stop himself; he was so taken aback by the question and the sheer ridiculousness of it that his own incredulity won out over prudence. The thought had never even occurred to him, and he couldn't see why it would; Jean had married her Christopher, had borne him three children, loved her little family so fiercely. If he'd left her in strife he was certain he would have known, and equally certain that Christopher would not have taken her to wife. What sort of man would do that, wed a woman with another man's baby in her belly? And besides, if Lily  _were_  his, surely Jean would have told him by now, or else sent him running to stop him finding out the truth. No, he adored Lily, but she was not his flesh and blood, and he told his father so.

"Of course not," he scoffed.

Thomas appeared unconvinced. "There are no secrets in a town like Ballarat, Lucien," he said seriously. "I may not have been her doctor but everyone knows that Jean was already in the family way when she married Christopher. It was only a few months between the wedding and Lily's delivery. And it wasn't so very long after you left. Can you be certain?"

Lucien shifted uncomfortably on his feet, a heavy sense of doubt settling in his gut. He knew what his father was so cautiously trying to ask him;  _can you swear to me that you did not take that girl's virtue? Can you swear to me that you never once lay with her? And if you cannot, how can you say for certain the child is not yours?_

The truth was Lucien  _had_ tumbled with Jean, many times, before his father cast him out, before he went off to Melbourne in search of a new life for himself. That had been January, he recalled; it was a warm night, not long after Christmas. Lily had told him, only a few days before, that her birthday was coming up in September, excited as she was at the prospect of presents, having already decided what sort of cake she would like to have to mark the occasion; rather quickly he did a bit of math, and felt his face run pale as his father looked on, stricken.

"She isn't mine," he insisted feebly, knowing his father did not believe him for a moment and yet trying, with all his might, to preserve Jean's honor. It was possible, he supposed, given the timing of it, and wasn't that strange, that he had never dared even hope for such a thing until his father mentioned it? It was just as likely that Jean went running straight into Christopher's arms, believing that Lucien had jilted her, and they had been terribly unlucky from the very start. Lucien did not know which answer was more troubling, that he had left Jean alone and pregnant and desperate, or that Jean had been able to so quickly transfer her affections to another man. To his mind both solutions spoke to failings of his own character, meant that either he had been too weak to do what it took to claim Jean for his own, or that he had not been man enough to sway her heart for more than a week or two.

"Perhaps it's best," Thomas said slowly, "if we all behave as if I believe you."

And that was that; Thomas turned from the room, and did not speak another word about it.

* * *

Later that night, however, after a subdued supper and a quiet drink with Jean, after the children had gone to sleep and Jean had sought her own bed, Lucien sat upon the sofa, his hands clenched in fists atop his knees, and tried to sort through the tumult of his emotions. Lily was a charming girl, dear to his heart, though he was equally fond of her brothers and would not have anyone say that he favored one of the three more highly than the others. His affection for Lily stemmed in no small part from the joy of having a little girl around when his own daughter was so far away from him, he knew, but he had come to care for her just as she was, for all the little ways she reminded him of Jean, for all the little ways she had shown herself to be her own person already, headstrong and curious. How would things change, if she truly were his?

He did not think he could care for her more than he did already, for in truth he looked after all the Beazley children as if they were his own, felt a fierce desire to comfort them, to protect them, all three. And even if she were his flesh and blood, it was Christopher Beazley who had raised her, whom she had called  _dad_ , whom she had loved as a child loves her father, and he could not, would not dare to presume to disregard the role that man had played in her life.

And then it struck him, quite suddenly, and he buried his face in his hands as if he could somehow hide from his own damnation. If Lucien truly were Lily's father, he owed Christopher a debt beyond measure. Christopher had taken care of Jean, that girl Lucien had loved so fiercely and yet abandoned, and he had taken care of Lily, and apparently never once complained or slighted her on account of her parentage. That brave young man who had died holding Lucien's hand, who had perished while Lucien still soldiered on; Lucien had been the one to bring news of his death to Jean's door, Lucien had been the one who failed to save him, who had turned up one fine summer evening and torn this family to pieces. Perhaps it was not his fault that Christopher had died, but he carried the weight of that guilt just the same. He had told himself at the time there was nothing more to be done, and though the pragmatic voice in his head told him it was true, his heart still cried out, wondering if something, anything could have saved Sergeant Beazley, could have spared his children this pain. Christopher Beazley had been all the things that Lucien was not, kind and good and strong enough to defend this family, to provide for them, while Lucien had run away. Not for the first time he found himself cursing fate, thinking how cruel it was that he survived while Christopher was gone, that there was still a chance, however slim, that Li might one day be reunited with him while Lily would never again feel the warmth of her father's arms around her. Even if she was his flesh and blood, he could not call himself her father, not when he had been so long away from her, when he had formed another family all his own and left her behind.

And Jean, oh Jean; he nearly began to weep as he thought of her. He could not imagine how difficult it must have been for her, if it were true, how scared she must have been, how desperate. Barely nineteen, her father cruel and strict, her mother's health failing, everyone in town looking down their noses at her already for her shabby clothes and her worn out shoes and her undesirable surname. It was a blessing that she had loved her Christopher so deeply, that he had been more than a soft place to land, that she had given him her heart, all of herself, but still, Lucien could not banish the thought of her, that girl she had been, wild and hungry and eager to see the world, to be anywhere but Ballarat, forced to abandon her dreams and wed Christopher in a hurry because of Lucien's own carelessness. If Lily was his, then he had stolen her mother's future, had left her trapped in poverty and deprivation, widowed and alone. It did not matter that he had loved her once, that he might love her still, if that love had doomed her.

_If, if, if._  For in truth he did not  _know,_ for a certainty, that this calamity had been of his own making. The only way to know for sure, he supposed, would be to ask Jean outright, but he would not dare do such a thing. Jean had built this family with her own blood, sweat, and tears, had sheltered those children in the warmth and quiet of her own body, had brought them forth in strife and pain, had shared her bed with Christopher, had worked her fingers to the bone to keep food on the table, and in the end he supposed it did not matter, truly, who Lily's father was. Jean was Lily's  _mother,_ and if she wanted the girl to believe that Christopher was her father than Lucien would not question her. He would have to carry this burden in secret, his heart breaking each time he looked at Lily, each time he wondered  _what if_. He owed it to Jean to keep his silence, and for her sake he would, though his very soul cried out in anguish.


	22. Chapter 22

_1 July 1946_

" _Jean_ ," Lucien whispered hoarsely as she stepped out of the boys' room, intent on making her way to her own bed. The sound of his voice drifting down the corridor frightened her for a moment, before she realized that if there were trouble afoot likely Lucien would not have wasted his breath on whispers, and would have instead sprung into action. More curious than frightened, then, she made her way towards him, and found him standing by the window in the sitting room, firelight flickering across his face, his eyes wide and round with boyish wonder.

" _Look,"_ he breathed, gesturing towards the window. Dutifully Jean stepped up beside him, and what she saw then made her gasp. Beyond her dusty window the world was dark and silent and still, and snow was falling.

 _Snow in Ballarat?_ It almost never snowed in Ballarat, and certainly never this early in July, but she could not deny the soft white flakes falling on the bone dry grass, soundless and yet sighing out a quiet song that warmed Jean's heart. For a time she simply stood there next to Lucien, wordless and full of awe. There was something so peaceful about it, the steady falling snow, the warmth of the fire, the companionship of a man she cared for, her children safe in their beds. For a moment she considered waking them, but then she rather selfishly decided against it; if she brought them out now the children would be far too excited to sleep, and that would spell disaster for her the next morning when they were grumpy and out of sorts. The snow would likely melt before they had a chance to play in it, and besides, there was a small piece of her heart that wanted to remain right where she was, to share this moment of beauty with Lucien, and him alone.

He'd been strange, these last few weeks. Quiet and rather withdrawn, though Jean knew of no reason for his melancholy. As Jean collected the post herself she knew there had been no news from China, and she supposed that perhaps that lack of certainty and the dreary winter weather had been sufficient cause for his sorrow, but in the past he shared such grievances with her. It was not like him, to remain so close-lipped when something troubled him, and his quiet distress had communicated itself to her, left her feeling somewhat edgy. It would be nice, she thought, to spend a few moments together without the weight of their pasts heavy on their shoulders, to simply stare out into the darkness, and watch the gently falling snow.

"I don't think it's snowed in Ballarat since I was a child," Lucien told her, his normally booming voice subdued by the blanket of calm the snow brought with it.

"This is all anyone will talk about for days," Jean agreed, smiling.

"Yes," Lucien said, his eyes still glued to the falling snow. "Farmers and the weather. It sometimes seems that's all they ever talk about."

Jean frowned at him; she thought for a moment that she detected a note of bitterness in his voice, and quite suddenly found herself wondering if Lucien's grim mood was a result of his having grown tired of life on the farm. It could be a bit dull at times, she supposed, not the sort of work or company that could hold the interest of a worldly man like Lucien for very long, but it was her whole life, and she chafed at the thought that it might not be enough for him. That  _she_  might not be enough for him.

 _Stop this,_ she told herself, for perhaps the hundredth time. More and more her thoughts drifted towards him, the strength of his arms, his gentle smiles, the way he made her laugh, the joy and the life that he had brought to her home. He was a complicated man, but a good one, and she was finding it harder with each passing day to regard him as no more than a friend. He had woken the possessive, wanting beast that had been slumbering in her chest since the day Christopher left for the war, and she had no notion of how to put it down again. She wasn't entirely sure she wanted to. When she was with Lucien, when he spoke to her softly, when he looked at her like she was the only woman in the world, she felt more herself than she had done for years. Jean had buried her own wants, her own needs, had given herself over entirely to the preservation of the farm and the raising of her children no matter how her heart cried out for more, but Lucien reminded her of the girl she had been, reckless and wild and full of dreams, and in his roguish smile she found hope that one day she might be that girl again, that one day, maybe, she might be free.

"Have the children ever seen snow?" he asked, turning to her with a speculative look upon his face, any discomfort or unsettled nerves he might have been suffering from before no longer in evidence. Perhaps it had never happened at all, and she had only imagined it, frightened as she was at the thought of losing him, though she knew deep in her heart that such loss was inevitable. Lucien was not hers, and he never could be; she only had him on loan, until his child was found, until he decided to leave, as he was bound to do.

"Lily has," she answered, trying to smile, to be kind, remembering little Lily tromping delightedly through the snow while Jean stood by with young Christopher cradled on her hip. Her husband had complained bitterly, Jean recalled; he hated the cold, longed for endless sunny days when he could make his way through the fields, sweaty and content. "She loved it. It was a long time ago, though, I'm not sure she'll remember."

Lucien hummed, and turned his attention once more to the window. "The year before the war, my family and I spent Christmas in London with friends," he volunteered after a moment's pensive silence. "I doubt Li would remember the snow now, either, but she loved it just the same."

For a single, frozen instant Jean saw the pain, the self-loathing in his eyes, and her heart shattered to think of all he had lost, to think how dreadful this endless waiting for news must have been for him. He loved his little girl, just as Jean loved hers, and she could only imagine how much it pained him to be so long separated from her.

"One day, Lucien," she told him softly. The stillness, the darkness, the sudden racing of her pulse made her bold, and without a single thought she reached out and placed her hand gently on his bicep, comforting him, anchoring him to this moment, reminding him that he was not alone, that he was not the only one who had lost someone dear to war and horror. "You'll hear from them soon, and you'll find her, and you will bring her home."

He turned to her sharply, though he made no move to take her hand from his body and she did not take a step back, choosing instead to face him head on. Jean had cast her shoes off hours before, and she stood a head shorter than him now, confronted by the way he loomed over her, all heat and muscle and damned temptation, with his angel's face and his tumble of soft blonde curls.

"And who knows," she said, forcing herself to speak, to look into his bright blue eyes and not allow her gaze to wander to the curve of his full lips above his well-trimmed beard. "One day they might be great friends, Li and Lily. One day they might play in the snow together."

In the dancing firelight she saw the sheen of tears in his eyes, felt the sting of her own at the thought.  _Please don't leave me,_ she thought as she watched him, felt the tension rising between them there in the darkness with only the falling snow to bear witness.  _Go and find her, and bring her back home. Come back to me._

Without saying a word Lucien reached up and covered her hand with his own, the warmth of his skin sending a shock of yearning straight through her. He was so damnably  _close;_ with each desperate breath she took their chests almost touched, and as they stood together he leaned towards her, bowed his head so that his cheek was very nearly touching hers. His free hand lifted up and settled upon her waist, and Jean felt her knees go weak at the contact, hungry for more, for all of him. Her heart was racing, begging for more, begging her to lift her head and consign herself to the fire of his kiss, but she could not move a muscle.  _Too much, too much,_ the rational part of her brain whispered frantically, but that prudent impulse was fast losing out to the roaring beast of desire in her chest. For that moment they shared the same air, the same space, the same thoughts, tense and tight and full of longing, but Lucien would not take that next step, would not draw her into his embrace, would not close the space between them and capture her lips with his own, and Jean remained likewise frozen, feeling her heart shredding itself to pieces beneath the weight of everything that might be, that could be, if only they were to step from the precipice together.

* * *

Lucien was holding his breath, waiting for the sky to fall, waiting for Jean to tear herself away from him and remind him that she was not his to touch, to yearn for. It was dangerous, he knew, to push so far, to curl his hand around her hip and thread his fingers through her own, but she was so damnably lovely, so unbelievably kind in the face of all the hardship she had known, so tender with all the jagged pieces of him that he could not bear to pull away from her. She was young, still, and the years of their separation and her hard work on the farm had not stolen her beauty, had only solidified it, had only transformed her from a willowy girl into a woman of unbearable grace. The swing of her hips, those hips he now touched so reverently, his hand curling against the curve of her, enticed him more than words could say. The flash of her grey eyes, the curve of her cheek, the cleverness of every word she spoke left him spellbound and hungry for her. In this moment, alone and still, with the miracle of a July snow and the undeniable grace of her beside him, he could not deny how very much he wanted her.

He shouldn't, he knew. He had ruined her life, not once but twice, and he shuddered to think what sort of calamity might befall her should they throw caution to the wind in this moment. In the weeks since his father had raised the question of Lily's paternity Lucien had watched Jean and her children in a brooding silence, thinking on his own failings. Surely, he told himself, he could have tried harder, could have done more, could have taken the bus from Melbourne to Ballarat and marched out to her father's farm and demanded to hear from her own lips that she wanted nothing more to do with him, but he had slunk away in shame, and in so doing he might well have committed the most grievous sin of his life, might have abandoned Jean in her direst hour of need, might have denied her the only chance she would ever have of living a life beyond the constraints of Ballarat. Guilt poked at him like knives every where he turned, and yet he had no one to confide in, for the only other soul who appeared to suspect a thing was his father, and Thomas had rather firmly declared that he would not say another word about it. For the first time since he'd come to this place Lucien had felt so lonely he could hardly breathe for the ache of it.

Only not now, not in this moment with Jean so close to him, her body swaying towards him though she'd closed her eyes as if to banish the vision of his face, as if to deny the temptation that hung heavy in the air between them. In this moment, he was no longer lonesome or heartsick; what he felt, standing there with her, was only want and hope, overwhelmed and overcome with the notion that though such proximity was dangerous, that should the flint of his spirit ever strike against the tinder of her soul they would both of them be consumed by the resultant conflagration, she seemed to long for that blaze as much as did he. The color was high in her cheeks, her lips parted and wanting, and she was beautiful,  _so beautiful-_

"Good night, Lucien," she whispered, though she made no move to step away from him.

Her gentle words brought him back into reality with a sudden jolt, and he swallowed back his desire and his disappointment. She was right, of course; whatever they wanted could never be, not now, a bare few months after he'd arrived at her door, with her children sleeping down the hall and no promises made. They could not do this now, when there were so many questions as yet unanswered, so many transgressions for which Lucien felt he needed to ask forgiveness, though he could hardly find the words. Their collective grief was fading, and perhaps, in time, with grace and patience and a bit of luck, Lucien might be able to reach and take hold of her for good and all, the way he longed to do. But not now, not yet.

"Good night, Jean," he answered, though he remained right were he was, his cheek alongside hers, the soft scent of her hair floating all around him.

Jean took one ragged breath and stepped away, turning her back on him at once and heading for her bedroom without a glance back over her shoulder. He watched her go, followed the swaying of her hips and the bouncing of her chestnut curls, and in the darkness, he smiled. Lucien took an unsteady breath of his own and turned back to the window, to watch the snow fall and ponder what course his future might take.


	23. Chapter 23

_29 July 1946_

Beans, cabbage, and tomatoes, that was the order of the day. Though the temperature remained quite cool the general consensus was that any risk of a hard freeze was all but nonexistent, and for small-time farmers like Jean, that meant that the time had come to get a start on the next round of planting. They'd spent a long weekend together, Jean and Lucien and the children, plowing the plots that would accept their new crops, watching the sky as all farmers will, hoping that the rain would hold off until they could get their seeds in the ground, hoping that the weather would stay mild, hoping for a good yield and no vermin and a chance to put a few more pounds in their pockets. Farmers' lives, Lucien had learned, were built on such hopes.

As Lucien's life was built on hope; hope that one day soon the long-awaited letter would arrive, hope that he would find his child, hope that he and Jean might find a way to put an end to their endless circling dance and move forward, together. He was certain of very little, when it came to Jean, unsure of what she was thinking, what she was feeling at any given moment, but  _oh,_ he hoped. They had very nearly crashed together in the sitting room weeks before, and a half a dozen times since; crossing in the corridor of the tiny farmhouse, standing together by the sink and washing the dishes, lingering perhaps a bit longer than they should on a Saturday night when the children were asleep and Jean's sherry glass was empty. Each time it happened, each time they drew too close, each time proximity and desperate want sucked the air out of the room and left them each with pounding hearts and trembling hands Jean had been the one to draw them back from the edge of calamity, but still, he hoped. She had given him cause to hope, for though she did not give into the tide of desire that threatened to pull their feet out from under them she likewise did not seek to create more space between them, did not manufacture reasons to avoid him. She had given him cause to hope because no matter how many times she stepped away from him, she always returned, circling, warm and soft with a sparkle in her eyes that set his heart to racing. Though he could not say for sure whether she would be willing to accept more from him under different circumstances, whether with time and space and the right combination of promises she might consent to be his once more, he was beginning to hope that she  _wanted_ to, and that was more than enough for him. That sliver of hope was all that he could ask of her, just now, and he treasured it deep within his heart.

It was a Monday morning, clear and bright, and Jean had loaded the children into her car and driven them to school. The distance was not so very great that they could not have walked should necessity call for it, but Jack was still quite small, and Jean doted on her children, and Lucien could not fault her for the indulgence of driving them into town. It gave him an hour or so to spend on his own, digging in the fields in the coolness of the early morning, and so he set to work, humming softly to the accompaniment of the birds.

Given the relative tranquility of the farm that morning, the sound of a car lumbering along the drive was conspicuous indeed. From his vantage point to the south Lucien could easily monitor the visitor's approach, and what he saw made the breath freeze in his lungs. It was not Jean's ancient black car, but rather the pale blue of a police vehicle. A thousand possible horrors leapt into Lucien's mind at once, and his hands began to shake so badly that he dropped his spade. Tremors and fear had never affected him so deeply, before the war, and he did his best to curtail his anxiety now, but the long years of his captivity had left an indelible mark upon him. His heart had known swirling, howling grief, now, and the thought of enduring such torment, such depth of loss a second time was more than he could bear. As he watched the car lumbered to a stop, and in a moment Matthew Lawson was unfolding himself from the driver's seat, recognizable even at this distance by the set of his shoulders and his blonde hair ruffled by the gentle breeze. Matthew paused for a moment to settle his hat upon his head, and Lucien forced himself to raise his hand in greeting, though his throat was too tight for speech.

Matthew waved back and began to make his way across the dirt, and as he did Lucien watched him with fear gnawing at his gut. They had been friends once, Lucien and Matthew, when they were very small, before Lucien's mother died, before he was sent off to boarding school. They saw one another during the holidays, drifting ever further apart as their lives took such vastly different turns. Before the war, the last time Lucien saw Matthew they had shared a drink together at the pub during the Christmas season; with a start, Lucien realized that the night he'd sat at the Pig and Whistle with Matthew Lawson was the night before he'd been forced to leave Ballarat for good. That night Matthew had prodded him good-naturedly about the girl he was seeing, certain that there must be one given the way that Lucien had been behaving, and Lucien had tried to fob him off, though he could not hide the smile that love had painted across his features. That night was twelve years gone, and so very much had changed in the interim, but as he worried for Jean and her children Lucien could not deny that he still loved the same girl, and likewise he still could not tell Matthew Lawson a thing about it.

"Matthew!" he said with a forced joviality as his old friend drew near.

"Lucien," Matthew answered, his voice gruff and flat. "Been a long time." He extended his hand and Lucien took it, shaking briefly, Lucien studying the senior sergeant's face carefully in the cheery sunlight, looking for some indication of what this visit might be about.

"That it has," Lucien said. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

"I spoke with your father this morning," Matthew said, which to Lucien's mind was no answer at all. Matthew tucked his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels, a gesture that was so very familiar and so very Matthew that it helped to set Lucien at ease somewhat. Matthew's posture was not that of a man who had come to deliver bad news, and Lucien tried to reassure himself that surely all was well. "He said I might find you here."

"That's not a crime, is it?" Lucien asked wryly, running his hand absently over his hair.

"I think that depends on who you ask." Matthew's tight grin was not exactly mirthful, and told Lucien all too plainly that Lawson had caught wind of some of the gossip surrounding Lucien's living arrangements. Before he could defend himself, however, Matthew was speaking again. "I need your help, Lucien. Doug Ashby is in Melbourne and he's left me in charge at the station. The body of a young girl was found lying in the lane behind the florists' and your father told me he's feeling unwell. He suggested you might be able to serve as police surgeon in the interim, until he's recovered."

Lucien frowned. He had visited his father on Saturday and Thomas had been in fine health, and somewhere in the back of Lucien's mind a suspicion began to grow. Lately Thomas had been turning their conversations more and more to Lucien's return to medicine, the elder Blake having made it very clear that he felt his son's talents and education were wasted while he lived as a farmhand. Though Lucien had been firm in his insistence that he was quite happy with his life as it was, he knew his father was not above a bit of meddling in order to get his way. The thought chaffed; Lucien did not like having his choices made for him. If and when he returned to medicine, he intended to do it on his own terms, but his father had rather neatly backed him into a corner. Matthew needed help, and it would fall to Lucien to either give that assistance - and allow his father to claim this victory - or to be an ungrateful lout who couldn't be bothered to serve his community when they had need of him.

"Matthew," he said slowly, "I'm not a police surgeon. I'm sure there's some sort of requirement-"

"You're a trained physician who comes highly recommended by my police surgeon, and you have the added qualification of not being a complete and utter arse." The rest of that sentence -  _unlike Doctor King -_ remained unspoken, for Lucien already knew all about his father's poor estimation of the man. "You'll have assistance from the hospital morgue attendant and I will oversee your role in the investigation. Please don't make me beg."

For a long moment Lucien simply stared at him, utterly flummoxed as to how to respond. He could have cursed his father, for placing him in this position, but even so he had to admit - however grudgingly - that spending the day investigating this poor girl's death sounded a great deal more interesting than whiling away the hours among the tomatoes and the cabbages.

"I have work to do here," he said, as his thoughts drifted from the tomatoes and onto Jean. "I'm supposed to be helping Jean with the planting." He gestured vaguely towards the dirt and machinery all around him.

Matthew clapped him on the shoulder. "I think I can help there," he said. "I'll send my constable round, things are slow enough and we need you more than we need him. He can help Jean with whatever needs doing here today. You'll be paid for your services, Lucien. What do you say?"

There was no way out. Matthew had thought of everything, and Lucien had no objections left. He sighed, his shoulders slumping in defeat. "Can it wait another half or so? I want to speak to Jean before I leave."

The look Matthew gave him was sharp and speculative, but he didn't press Lucien or remark on the strangeness of his request. "I'll radio my constable," he said. "As soon as Jean gets here, I'll drive you into town."

And that was that.

* * *

Jean spent a very strange day directing a young constable named Bill Hobart in her garden. The lad had been a bit sullen but he had not openly rebelled against any of her directions, and his strong hands and broad shoulders had been a great help to her. Though she supposed he was no more or less inept than Lucien, she found that she missed the presence of her dear friend beside her while she worked. It had been quite a shock, coming home that morning to find a police car parked on her drive and Lucien dressed in his very best clothes, waiting to explain to her that Matthew had need of his services, trying to avoid the eagle-eyed gaze of the senior sergeant as she and Lucien spoke quietly together in the kitchen. She did not begrduge either Matthew or Lucien the business that took her one and only farmhand away from her that day, particularly in light of the fact that Bill Hobart had provided assistance in Lucien's absence, but she'd missed him, just the same. They would talk and laugh together as they sweated beneath the sun, and sometimes, when he was in a very fine mood, Lucien would sing, and she would join her voice to his as the mood struck her, and the hours would pass quickly in a domestic sort of contentment. Though it had only been a few months, Jean had grown quite used to his proximity, and she missed the warmth of his eyes watching her throughout the day.

Such thoughts were dangerous, but they came to her with alarming regularity, now, after she'd very nearly kissed him in the sitting room. It was plain to Jean that Lucien wanted her, still, that whatever uncertain desire she felt for him was returned in kind, but she had long ago learned that desire alone was not enough to sustain her, and she was terrified of what might happen, should their gentle flirtations go too far. As she worked without him beside her she tried to tell herself that a little bit of distance would do them good, tried to remind herself that their arrangement was not permanent, and the day would soon come when Lucien would leave her side forever. She could not allow herself to grow too accustomed to leaning on him.

But for now, just for tonight, she was grateful to have him back. Lucien had returned in the evening with a spring in his step and a sparkle in his eyes, clearly having enjoyed his work as the interim police surgeon. Jean did not press him for details, for in truth she found the whole business rather macabre, but she was glad to see him looking so content. Perhaps if Lucien found a purpose here, if he found some reason to stay in Ballarat even after his time of waiting was through, perhaps the day might come when it wouldn't be so unthinkable, for her to give in to her longing for him. Perhaps the day might come when he would stay, and stay for good. That thought gave her hope, such as she had not had for many months.

"It's really remarkable, Jean," Lucien told her as he poured a measure of whiskey into a glass, as Jean cradled her own teacup in her hands and watched him fondly. The sun had sunk below the horizon, the dishes had been washed, the children had been put to sleep, and they were once more preparing to spend a few moments in the sitting room alone together. Jean's remained resolved to only indulge in a drink with Lucien on Saturday evenings, but such a resolution did not bar her from sipping her tea while he took his whiskey, and so they made their way to their accustomed places together, while Lucien began to tell her - unprompted - of the poor girl Matthew had found and how she'd died.

"The killer used a very thin blade, drove it straight up into the base of her skull."

He seemed curious, rather than depressed by this thought, but Jean shuddered. The mental image alone was more than she wanted to consider.

"Poor thing," she said sadly.

Though until that moment Lucien had been almost boyish in his enthusiasm he faltered beneath the heaviness of her tone, some of the old familiar sorrow coming back to him. Jean rather felt they had both seen more than their fair share of death, and she did not want Lucien to bring any further grief to their door. Still, though, in a way she could understand his curiosity. What had happened to the girl was simply dreadful, but Lucien had an opportunity now to help her family, to find out who had done it and why and bring them to justice, and Jean could understand how such a cause might appeal to a man like Lucien.

"Tell me, Jean," Lucien said, leaning towards her from his perch upon the sofa. "What do you know about the Williams family?"


	24. Chapter 24

_12 August 1946_

It was Jean who figured it out, in the end. She'd taken the children to Sunday mass the way she did each week, and, the way he did each week, Lucien had spent the morning in the sitting room by the fire, reading a book he'd borrowed from his father. The mystery of the dead girl found in the lane behind the florists' had distracted him from his attempts at reading, however; for two weeks now the police had been searching for some lead, some indication as to who had killed her, and why, and though Lucien had ostensibly fulfilled his duties as interim police surgeon the moment he completed the autopsy, he found he could not stop pondering this puzzle, picking at it like a scab, desperately trying to let it go, to banish the thought of that poor dead girl's body from his mind, and yet obsessively returning to it, again and again. He tried to tell himself that he had already done everything he could for her, but such reassurances rang hollow while her killer remained at large.

They came through the front door in a welcome whirlwind of noise, Jean and her three little ones.

"Right, you lot," she was saying as she closed the door behind her, reaching out to ruffle Max's fur as the great rangy dog came rushing up to her, desperate for his mistress's affection. "Go and change your clothes and we'll have something to eat."

Though the children rushed off, eager for lunch and doubly eager to be rid of their restrictive Sunday clothes Jean lingered there in the doorway, slipping off her coat and hanging it on the peg beside Lucien's own. Beneath it she wore a faded green dress, hand tailored to suit the tuck of her waist and the soft swell of her breast just so, and the breath caught in Lucien's lungs as he looked at her. The dress was simple, its silhouette a few years out of fashion, but it was lovely, and  _she_ was lovely, with her hair caught at the nape of her neck and a fresh coat of blood-red paint on her nails. Lucien saw this woman every day, and he loved her every day, but it was not every day that he saw her like  _this,_ every one of her features accentuated to its full effect. He swallowed hard, and offered a weak little smile when her fierce grey eyes landed on his face.

"Did you enjoy your morning alone, Lucien?" she asked him winsomely as she swept across the threadbare carpet, settling into her favorite armchair with a grin upon her face, the grin of a woman who has just discovered that she knows something a man does not.

"I did," he answered her warily, wondering what could possibly have put her in such a fine mood; she often returned from church looking rather forlorn, no doubt as a result of the quiet whispers and sharp glances that followed her everywhere she went, but Lucien had hoped that such mindless gossip would have died down, given the fact that he'd been staying here for months and nothing untoward had passed between them. Much as he might have liked for it to.

"I had an interesting conversation with Betsy Ross," Jean said archly. Lucien meant to ask her who on earth Betsy Ross was and what that had to do with anything but the words died on his lips and he found his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth as Jean crossed her legs and then slid one hand down her shapely calf to attack the buckle of her shoe. He watched in fascination as those delicate fingers worked the clasp free, as the shoe clattered to the floor and she stretched her toes beneath her stockings, no doubt grateful to be free of it. She re-crossed her legs and began to repeat the process, and his heart pounded so loudly in his chest that for a moment he became truly worried that she could hear it. Her movements were casual, familiar, in no way designed to entice him, but she was very so lovely that the sight of her legs, her hands, the thought of removing even a single article of her clothing in his presence was enough to inflame him, to overcome him utterly. If Jean thought it strange that he did not press her she did not comment; after a moment of strained silence she carried on with her tale.

"Apparently," she said, " Your Miss Williams was keeping company with Doctor Phillips at the hospital. Betsy swears no one else knows, she only knew because she was visiting her sick aunt at the hospital and accidentally walked in on the two of them in an empty room. Allison made her swear not to tell anyone, and the police didn't think to talk to Betsy, they weren't great friends. I do feel sorry for the poor girl, she was nearly in hysterics today, trying to decide whether she ought to tell the police about Dr. Phillips. "

Jean pronounced the words _keeping company_  very carefully, a world of meaning couched in such an innocuous phrase, and Lucien smiled despite himself.

"Doctor Phillips," he mused, running a hand absently over his beard, his mind trying to catch up with what Jean had told him, to put aside thoughts of sliding his palms along her bare legs and focus instead on the matter at hand.

"Who's at least fifteen years older than she is, and married to boot," Jean declared.

Now that  _was_ interesting. Whoever had killed poor Allison Williams had to possess a passing knowledge of human anatomy and enough strength to drive the blade through the base of her skull. A very thin blade. In fact, the wound could very well have been caused by a -

"Didn't you say the killer might have used a scalpel?" Jean asked, leaning towards him now, her shoes abandoned and her eyes brighter than the fire that roared cheerily beside her.

"Jean, you're a marvel," Lucien breathed, meaning every word. No one had mentioned this Doctor Phillips to the police, Lucien knew, but if the girl had been his mistress - a very young one, given that she was not quite nineteen - and things had turned ugly between them, then he might have had cause enough to kill her. Add to that the details surrounding the method of the murder, and it seemed to him that Jean had just sewn the whole thing up quite neatly, while the police continued to flounder around.

Jean beamed at him, positively radiant in the face of his praise. It would not have been difficult, to close the space between them, to plant his lips firmly on hers, and in that moment there was nothing Lucien wanted more. She was beautiful, was Jean, and the light of discovery had helped her to shed some of the weariness, some of the care that so often haunted her steps. In the flickering light of the fire she became once more that girl she had been, before, that girl he had known and loved so fiercely. She wasn't just a mother, or a widow, or a desperate farmer still clinging to her land; she was  _Jean_ , only thirty-one, lithe and brilliant and lovely, young enough still, to chase her dreams, to hold him close, to laugh and love and share every bit of herself with him, if only she were willing, if only she wanted him, the way that he wanted her.

* * *

The children came racing into the room, Jack in the lead with Lily close behind him and Christopher following at his usual, much more sedate pace, and the spell that had been cast over them lifted at once. Lily was asking what they were to have for lunch and whether she could help, and Jack was begging Lucien for a game of footie after they ate, and Christopher was Christopher, serious and watching the proceedings with no indication of his feelings on his face, and whatever tide of exultant desire that had risen within Jean's chest at the sound of Lucien's praise faded at once beneath the weight of her more pressing needs.

Nevermind that he was lovely, was Lucien, the firelight dancing across his face while the sitting room remained dimmed thanks to the scuttling grey clouds overhead. Nevermind that he was in truth the handsomest man she'd ever seen, with his broad shoulders and close cropped beard, his soft blonde curls and his bright blue eyes. If anyone asked her - not that they ever would - Jean would be forced to admit that she found him more attractive now, at thirty-seven, than he had been at twenty-four; he was broader, stronger, more steady than he had ever been before, and if time and worry had left a few lines at the corners of his eyes they were all for the good, for when he smiled at her now there was a world of softness in him, a tenderness that Jean wanted to wrap herself in like a blanket.

He wanted her, she knew. She could see the hunger in his eyes even now, as she rose to her feet and herded her children into the kitchen. In the beginning, Jean had tried to tell herself that it was not so, that he was too distracted with thoughts of his wife and child to spare a moment for her, but she knew better now. Now that she had come so damnably close to falling into his arms, now that she had spent so many nights sitting by his side, watching the way his hand drifted towards her, eager for contact, the way his eyes slid across her frame, the way his voice went low and gravelly when the sun had fallen below the horizon and they lingered together too long in the stillness. He  _wanted_ her, just as she wanted him, and the thought terrified her even as it elated her.

Now was not the time for them, she knew. Not now, when he slept on her sofa, when his future remained so undecided, when his father was pestering him to return to medicine and Matthew Lawson was seriously considering bringing him on full time, when a letter from China might arrive at her doorstep any day and tear him away from her. This was not their moment, when she could not say for sure if it was only proximity and the lack of other available women that made him watch her with hooded eyes, when she had no way of knowing if the love she carried in her heart, that feeble flicker which had almost been extinguished by the passage of time only to roar back into an inferno the moment he arrive on her doorstep, was returned.

For however loath she might be to admit it, she loved him now, loved him truly. The time he'd spent away from her, working with Matthew and the other policemen on the murder, the long hours made so conspicuous by his absence, had given her a taste of what her life might be like without him in it, and she wanted no part of it. She love his gentle smiles and his great booming laugh, loved his brilliance and his boyish enthusiasm, yearned for the brush of his broad hands against her skin.  _God,_ but she yearned; it had been years since she'd last felt his arms wrapped around her, felt the brush of his lips against the curve of her breast, felt the unparalleled bliss of him moving deep inside her, but she had not forgotten a single moment of the time they'd spent together. She dreamt about it sometimes, woke sweaty and aching, unable to recall exactly what had transpired in her mind while she slept but knowing from the flush in her cheeks and the way her body burned that she had been dreaming of  _him._ Christopher had been dead for four long years, but Lucien was  _here,_ real and sure and true, everything she had ever longed for, everything she had thought she'd left behind forever. It was the most delicious sort of torture, having him so near, knowing that it would be so easy, so damanbly  _easy_  to give into temptation, and yet holding herself back.

There was a price to pay for such sinful indulgence, Jean knew. She carried the weight of those consequences with her every day, Christopher's death heavy on her conscience, her heart breaking as she watched Lily growing all the time, knowing that she could never speak the truth, knowing that this burden was hers to bear, and hers alone, lest she shatter her family irreversibly. Years before when she'd fallen pregnant before she was wed her reputation had been so badly damaged it was almost beyond repair. But she had paid her penance, had married Christopher and worked her hands to the bone and gone to Sacred Heart every week with her chin held high, and after twelve years of trying with all her might to present to the world the face of the perfect Christian wife she had regained some good standing in the town. Lucien's arrival had knocked her down a peg, but so long as they did not give into their base impulses, so long as she was not rash, she remained welcome in her church and her community. Should that circumstance change the talk would be unbearable; she shuddered to think what might happen, how her children might suffer, should she stumble from the path of righteousness and paint herself once more a sinner and a wanton one at that.

Jean felt her heart pulled in so many different directions at once she could hardly fathom the truth of it. She loved Lucien, but she could not tell him, could not risk discovering that he did not feel the same and shattering the comfortable life they had built together. She wanted Lucien, but she could not give into her desire, for to do so would only ruin her. She burst with the longing to tell him that Lily was his child, and yet held her tongue, for fear of what would become of her family. She wanted, very much, for Lucien to be reunited with his little Li, and yet she dreaded the day when he would have to leave her.

It was too much to bear, and Jean felt herself dangerously close to the breaking point. What she did not know, could not have known, was just how very close she was to the day when her life would once more change, forever.


	25. Chapter 25

_2 September 1946_

It had been a long day, not quite hot, not yet, but the weak winter sun was slowly gathering strength as spring approached, and he had enjoyed every moment of his labor. Once the children came home from school Lucien took it upon himself to entertain them outside, as he did on fine afternoons, so that Jean might be allowed a few moments peace while she set about putting together their supper. They played a brisk, somewhat muddled game of two-on-two; Jack being the smallest was paired with Lily, who was the best player of their foursome, and Lucien played alongside Christopher, knowing that despite the fact that he was a grown man he was more hindrance than help to his young teammate. To form makeshift goals two large sticks had been laid flat on either end of a patch of bare grass to give them somewhere to aim the somewhat lopsided ball they kicked so exuberantly between them. It was a pleasant way to pass the time; Christopher was somewhat quieter than his more boisterous siblings, but he played a fair game, and he was not so serious as to deny his little brother the chance to put the ball passed him, just to give young Jack the opportunity to score at least once. They were sweet, the three of them, and any time spent in their company warmed Lucien's heart immensely.

But then Jean was leaning through back door, shouting that supper was ready, and they abandoned their ball at once to make their way inside, eager to wash their hands and sit down to whatever lovely meal she had prepared for them. As Lucien walked along the grass behind the children, watching the sunlight fade, watching Jean smiling at the four of them so fondly, listening to the sound of the children's gentle laughter, his heart ached, for a moment, for a life that could never be. This was what it felt like, he thought then, to belong to a family. This moment, this joy, this affection, this easy familiarity, was a family, but it was not  _his._ He had only borrowed the Beazley family, only had them on loan, until Jean came to her senses, until the whispers became too much to bear, until he mucked it all up, as he eventually must. He could enjoy it for this moment, but he tried to remind himself that it would not do to get too comfortable here, to presume to take from them more than Jean was willing to give, to try to usurp the place of the brave young man who'd died holding his hand. It was a sour thought, and nearly enough to ruin his day.

Nearly, but not quite, for Jean was the very picture of loveliness, still wrapped in her soft floral apron, cheeks pink from standing over the hot stove, a smile on her full lips. Perhaps she would not ever be his, not in the way he wanted her to be, but he could enjoy her for now just like this, her friendship, her smiles, her beautiful face, her company, and so he only smiled back at her, and ducked his head as he slipped into the house.

The routine of it was comforting, jostling with the children by the sink as they washed their hands, Jean chiding Jack gently, herding him towards the table. Lucien took his turn last, dried his hands on a towel and tossed it to the side before making his way towards his own seat. He stopped dead in a moment, however, for beneath his empty plate there at the head of the table there lay a single white envelope.

In the beginning, when he was receiving regular dispatches from Derek, Jean collected the mail each afternoon, and should a letter arrive for Lucien she would lay it in the same spot each evening. It had been months since Lucien had received any sort of correspondence from anyone, and the sight of that letter, half-hidden beneath his plate, sent a shock straight through him. His hands began to tremble, and he struggled to draw in a breath.

"Lucien," Jean said softly, reaching out to lay a gentle hand against his arm. He turned towards her, agony stabbing at him like knives, fear and hope so fierce and so unrestrained swirling through him that it was a wonder he remained on his feet. In the beginning Lucien always forced himself to wait to read his letters until after dinner, to be courteous to his hosts, to remind himself that whatever information they contained there was little he could do in response, and so waiting might perhaps be for the best. Now, however, starved for news of his child, with a hefty reserve of bills piled up in the bottom of his trunk thanks to his work on the farm and with Mark Dempster and Matthew Lawson, in this moment when Jean was watching him with a boundless depth of compassion swirling in her glorious eyes, he could not bring himself to wait a single second longer.

Carefully he reached out and retrieved the letter, and Jean stepped away from him at once. Perhaps she felt it, the rippling uncertainty that tore through Lucien as he gazed down upon the envelope, the undercurrent of electricity rolling off of him in waves. Perhaps she felt as he did, that a terrible storm was brewing. Dark clouds were gathering outside and in Lucien's heart, for the return address on the envelope identified its sender as a government official in Shanghai. This was it, he knew. This was the moment when everything would change, when he would learn at last what had become of his precious Li, and his very life seemed to hang in the balance. If the news was good he would be overcome with joy, and if it was bad he would be utterly, completely shattered.

"Mum?" Lily asked in a timid little voice, her blue eyes bouncing and forth between her mother and Lucien like a spectator at a tennis match. Quite suddenly Lucien realized where he was, realized that he and Jean had been standing still and silent for far too long.

"It's fine, love," Jean murmured, jumping into action at once, helping to serve the food and stealing glances at Lucien out of the corner of her eye as at last he began to open that fateful letter.

If asked about it later, Lucien would not be able to recall precisely what that letter said. Phrases jumped out at him;  _dear Doctor Blake...Major Alderton...pleased to inform you...alive and well...come at once._

_Come at once._

A single, strangled sound escaped Lucien's lips, and then he was moving, adrenaline thudding through his veins, his vision clouded by tears, with only one thought swirling through his mind.  _Get to Li. Get to Li. Get to Li._

Without a word he tucked the letter in his pocket, turned, and ran out the door as fast as his feet would carry him. He did not even bother to close the door behind him, Jean's shouts echoing ineffectually in the crisp evening air. Lucien did not hear her, could not have stopped for anything. Though he would later admit that his actions were in no way rational, he nonetheless continued, racing as fast as his feet would carry him down the long dirt drive out to the road, turning towards Ballarat, towards his father and a telephone and the chance to set a course for his daughter. He had to bring her home; nothing else mattered.

* * *

Thomas Blake appeared quite shocked when he opened his door at 6:30 in the evening to find his son standing there, wild-eyed and sweating despite the relative chill in the air, gasping like a fish. Lucien thrust the letter at him, too winded to speak. Perhaps it was strange, that his path had taken him back to his father's door, after all the years he had spent hating the man, all the pain and misunderstandings between them, but in that moment he knew that he would find aid and comfort here, and he had gone to Thomas gladly. Over the course of their many quiet Saturday chats they had mended most of the fissures between them, had come to understand one another now as they never could have done when Lucien was young, and he was grateful, so grateful, for the ties that bound them together.

As Lucien stood gasping in the doorway Thomas devoured the letter hungrily, and then uttered a single phrase.

" _Good god, Lucien,"_ he breathed, stepping aside, his eyes wide and hopeful.

"I need your help," Lucien answered, panting as he accepted his father's silent invitation to step into the house.

"Of course, son," Thomas said, clapping him on the shoulder. "Come and have a cup of tea and we'll work this out."

And so they did, together. Thomas arranged their tea and then placed a call to a friend in Canberra, who despite grumbling about being disturbed at home nonetheless agreed to help him. They worked it out together, sitting there at the kitchen table that had been the scene of so many of their desultory weekend conversations, though now it seemed more like a military briefing room than anything else. Arrangements had to be made, to get Lucien from Ballarat to Melbourne, and from there to Shanghai. There were no civilian flights to be had at that time, but Thomas's friend in government believed he could pull some strings to arrange transport for Lucien as part of a diplomatic mission, and instructed him to present himself at the old familiar Army base in Melbourne at the first possible opportunity. They discussed what he ought to pack, rummaged through the house in search of important papers he might need, laid out a rough itinerary and planned how much money he would require to see him through. For a moment Lucien agonized over whether or not to accept the funds his father offered; in the end, however, he had to admit that his savings might not be sufficient, and that any charity he accepted from his father would be for Li's benefit, and not his own, and therefore could not be turned away. He would do anything,  _anything,_ to hold his child again.

When at last it was settled, or as settled as it could be, it was nearing 10:00 p.m. Despite the lateness of the hour Lucien insisted on returning to the farm; he needed to gather his belongings into his pack, and write a letter for Jean. He intended to leave again at first light, to make his way to the train station and from there on to Melbourne, and he was certain that she would be asleep when he returned, and asleep still when he left. Rather than disturb her he intended to write to her, though he knew that this time his letter would reach its intended recipient. Thomas had offered to drive him, but Lucien's father was not as young as he once was, and his eyesight was failing, and Lucien felt he had already asked too much of the man. He did however accept one final piece of assistance from his father, when Thomas handed him the keys to his old Holden.

"I don't want you to walk all that way again, Lucien," Thomas said seriously. "Drive it to the train station in the morning, and I'll pick it up there. You go home now, and try to rest, if you can."

 _Home,_ he'd said, and dimly Lucien realized that for the very first time his father had acknowledged that sticky truth that had so troubled him for these last few months, that Lucien had willfully and with open arms embraced his life on the farm and with the Beazleys, that he counted that little house and the beautiful souls who lived there as his home. Thomas had reached that conclusion with neither malice nor regret, and was in fact now encouraging his son where before he had only tried to steer him away. It would remain, for the rest of his life, one of the strangest and most emotional nights Lucien ever experienced.

Lucien pocketed the keys and then extended his hand, reaching out to shake his father's hand for the first time in recent memory. There was no sign of the man who spurned him once, who had bitterly told him  _you are no son of mine;_ Thomas Blake had turned a corner, and so had his son, and they accepted one another now as they never had before. For the first time since his mother's death, Lucien felt a surge of affection, of warmth, of love for his father, for this man who had so earnestly helped him in every way, who accepted him now. Losing one another had taught them both how precious their bond truly was, and now they were each determined to build a future that was brighter than their past.

"Thank you," he said earnestly.

Thomas beamed at him. "Go, Lucien," he said gruffly, trying to hide how moved he was by his son's words. "You bring my granddaughter home."

To hear his father so openly and earnestly accept his child as part of their family shredded the last of Lucien's already frayed nerves, and quite before he knew what was happening, he had caught his father in a fierce embrace.

"Thank you," he whispered. "Thank you."


	26. Chapter 26

_2 September 1946_

The rain started an hour after he left. A slow rain, a soft rain, a herald of the torrent that was to come. The wind was whipping up and the birds were silent and the children were restless, asking where Lucien had gone, why, when he was coming back. Jean lied to them because she did not know what else to say. When would he be back? She had no idea. Where had he gone? To drown himself in Lake Wendouree or to see his father; either scenario seemed equally likely, and Jean's hands trembled as she herded her children to their beds. Why? Jean was better informed on that score; either the letter told him that his child was dead and he had gone starking raving mad with grief, or the letter brought news that she still lived and he had torn off in search of a way to save her. The fact that Jean did not know for certain, that he had not trusted her enough, had not considered her worth the effort it would have taken to confide in her before he fled sat heavy as lead in her gut; oh, she had always known, in the back of her mind, that he was bound to leave her, but before now she had been foolish enough to hope that it would not be like this, not again, not the lightning-strike heat of his smile and the sudden stark chill of his absence with no explanation and no comfort to be had.

Soon enough the house was in silence and the darkness and the rain lashed at the windowpanes, and with no one there to see Jean gave in to her fear, and poured herself a measure of whiskey from the bottle Lucien had hidden in his trunk. Nevermind that it was a Monday, nevermind that her heart was aching from a blow delivered by a reckless man who'd never truly belonged to her, Jean settled herself in his usual spot on the sofa with the whiskey in hand. How long she sat there she could not say, trying not to think of how many nights she'd spent watching him lounging in this very seat, staring out the window and praying for guidance, for a calm that would not come, even when she finished her first glass and poured herself a second.

Jean sat in silence, sipping her pilfered whiskey, brooding on Lucien Blake and the futility of her heart and all the incomprehensible twistings and turnings of the road that had led her to this point. When he came back to her, eyes wild like a feral dog, rangy and hungry and far too thin, she had worried for a moment that no trace of the man she'd once loved remained. And then, over time, he had won her round, had shown her that beneath his newly grown beard he still had the same smile, the same warm laugh, the same brilliant mind, the same gentle hands. She had hoped, for a while, that the years had settled him some, that though time and torture had stolen some of the lightness from his soul they had also instilled a stability that had not been there, before. She had grown to love this new Lucien Blake, the one who while still impulsive was nonetheless up every morning with the sun, marching out across the pasture beside young Christopher to milk the cows, helping Jean in the garden and humming softly while they did the washing up, reliable in a way he never had been, before. In her youth Jean never would have believed it, that her Lucien, with his rakish grin, risking both reputations to take her hard and fast in the backseat of his father's car, would ever grow so responsible, but he had. He carried the weight of the world on his shoulders, now, but he could still smile, and  _oh,_ but she loved that smile.

Every good thought she'd ever had about him faded in light of the reality of his sudden departure. He was still the same selfish, self-destructive man he'd been before. He had  _left_  her, again, with no warning, no indication of what was to come. Did he mean to send her another letter? she asked herself bitterly as she sipped her whiskey. Was he so much a coward that he still couldn't bring himself to face her, after all that they had shared? The night they had comforted each other on that very same sofa, every evening they had spent speaking softly to one another of regrets and dreams, every ounce of blood and sweat and sheer belligerent determination they had poured into the farm; did all of it mean nothing to him? Did  _she_ mean nothing to him?

No matter what she'd told herself, no matter how she'd tried to be practical, logical, level-headed about the whole thing, Jean had come to rely on him, not just for his assistance around the farm but for his company, his wisdom, the comfort she drew from his presence. No matter what she'd told herself, she had, rather foolishly, once more fallen completely in love with him. Only everything now was so much more complex than it had been, before, when they were both so young and headstrong. She had her children to think about now, her children who adored Lucien, who had made room in their lives for him, who begged him for stories and worried for him when he was not there with them. How could Jean ever possibly hope to explain this to them? The thought of putting her children through that, the thought of them once more experiencing the loss of a man they'd loved, a man they'd trusted, so completely, made her nearly sick to her stomach with grief.

By the time she heard the crunch of tires on the dirt track leading up to her front door it was nearing midnight, and she had worked herself into such a state of fury and righteous indignation that her hands were shaking too hard to hold the glass a moment longer. She set the glass down upon the side table and pulled herself up to her full height, patting down her hair and trying to marshall her arguments, trying to prepare herself for the conversation that was to come. Whatever Lucien's reasons for leaving her like that he needed to know that he couldn't treat people this way, no matter what he'd done during the war, no matter who his father was. He couldn't treat  _her_ this way, as if she did not matter to him, as if everything that had passed between them meant nothing at all. Maybe it did not matter to him, this connection that they shared, but it meant everything to Jean, and she would not be so easily cast aside.

Lucien slipped into the house on silent feet, shaking off the rain and running a hand over his soft blonde curls, hanging limp and dripping down onto his shoulders. He started visibly when he caught sight of Jean, and then offered her a tentative smile.

"Jean," he began, taking a step towards her, but she was too angry, too frightened, too heartsick to recognize the light in his eyes.

"Where have you been?" she hissed. Her voice trembled, just a little, but she kept her tone low, not waiting to wake the children. She would have the truth of him, and she would make damn sure he heard her before he left her home, never to return.

"I went to see my father," he said quickly. "Jean-"

"And you didn't think to tell me where you were going?" she hissed. "Lucien, it has been-" she glanced at her watch - "almost six  _hours._ Do you have any idea how worried I've been? How worried the  _children_ have been?"

He stared at her, agony in his eyes, desperation rolling off him in waves, but Jean wore her pain like armor, invulnerable to his boyish face and earnest pleas.

"Jean," he tried again, but she had hit her stride, and no words would stop her now.

"It's all fine and well for  _you,"_ she spat, "to go rushing off wherever the wind takes you, nevermind the mess you leave behind. But I'm the one who has to clean it up, Lucien. I'm the one left picking up the pieces,  _again,"_

Some of the hopelessness had left his face, while she spoke, and she could see the faintest shine of anger in him now. That only increased her ire, however; how dare he be cross with  _her,_ when he was the one who had caused her so much grief? Not just tonight, but that night twelve years ago, when he had loved her and left her all alone. Oh, she knew now he'd sent a letter, after, but as she stared at him in the gloom of her sitting room she became quite suddenly convinced that he'd meant to break things off with her in that letter, as he had done with Monica Goodman, that he had taken what he wanted of her and thrown her away, and that now he was prepared to do the same again.

"Now, Jean," he said, in a placating sort of voice, "please, hear me out-"

"I don't want your excuses, Lucien." To her horror, she felt the prickle of tears gather in the corners of her eyes, all the pain, all the crippling self-doubt his original abandonment had instilled in her suddenly spilling out from behind the dam which time had built to stem its flood.

"Fine!" he said suddenly, sharply, and before Jean realized what was happening he spun on his heel, and walked right back out the door.

The last remaining threads of Jean's self-control snapped, and she was after him in an instant, racing out into the night, the pouring rain soaking her to the bone at once, the far-off rumble of thunder roaring in the distance.

"Oh, no you don't!" she called after him, and when he did not stop, making a beeline for his father's car, desperation loosed her tongue in earnest. "Don't you dare walk away from me, Lucien Blake!" she shrieked above the steady wash of the pouring rain. "Not again!"

Her words had the intended effect; he stopped in his tracks and spun round to face her, his eyes wide and flashing in the darkness.

"Is that what you think I did?" he demanded. "You think I walked away from you?"

Somehow they had gone from discussing his current transgression to hashing out the murky past, and though Jean was not quite sure how they'd arrived at that topic and even less sure as to whether or not such a conversation was a good idea her nerves were too frayed to put an end to it.

"What am I supposed to think?" she demanded, shouting to be heard over the storm, though her voice was bitter and brittle.

"I asked you to marry me!" Lucien roared.

To say that she was shocked would be to make a gross understatement. Jean's legs very nearly gave way beneath her. Her heart began to pound so fiercely that for one mad moment she was convinced it must surely burst out of her chest. There was a roaring in her ears that had nothing to do with the storm roiling all around them. Perhaps he could tell just how his words had stunned her, for he advanced on her at once, eager to bring his point home. For a moment she thought that he would stop at a safe distance, too far away for her to strike him in her grief and her rage, but he didn't; he just kept walking until he was cradling her cheeks in his palms, brushing her soaking wet hair back from her face.

"I wrote to you, and asked you to be my wife," he said, blue eyes wide and beseeching, staring into her very soul, and his voice was so very broken and so very earnest that Jean knew it had to be true. Tears streamed down her cheeks as that truth hit home, as she realized how close she had come to having everything she'd ever wanted, how easily it all been snatched away from her, and how none of it -  _none of it -_ had been his fault.

"I love you, Jean," he swore. "I loved you then, and I love you now, and I will never leave you, not unless you ask me to."

For twelve long years Jean had tried to forget the sound of his voice whispering those words in her ear, and to hear them now, in this moment of chaos, set upon on all sides by tumultuous desire and burning, blazing fear, she had absolutely no idea how to respond to them. His blue eyes searched her face, the heat of his gaze almost unbearable at this close range, and when she did not speak he seemed to find an answer in her silence, for he smiled at her once, sadly, and turned away.

She watched him take one step, and then another, and then another, and then she broke completely, tearing after him, the only thought in her head  _no, not again, please not again_. Jean caught him by the arm and tugged, hard, spinning him around, his boots squelching in the mud beneath his feet. Jean could not bring herself to care that it was wrong, that it was dark, that her children were inside, that she still didn't know what news the letter he'd received contained; all that mattered to her, in that moment, was that he loved her, and he was walking away.

Lucien did not give her the chance to speak. He knew her, this wild, glorious man, better than any other living soul, and with a single look at her ragged face and heaving chest he had discerned her intent. In an instant she was in his arms, one hand hooked tight around the back of his neck, drawing him down to her as his lips crashed into hers and she laid herself open for him, hungry and bare and utterly without recourse, so desperate for the taste of him that the first brush of his insistent tongue against her own sent a fresh wave of tears coursing down her cheeks. Jean surged up towards him, rainwater and tears painting their skin as they bowed and shifted and arched together, her hand sliding into his hair while her other arm wrapped round his broad, strong shoulders, desperate for something to cling to, desperate to hold him. Their clothes were soaking wet, clinging and shifting together, the night around them cool and damp while their bodies burned. There was nothing gentle, or tentative, or hesitant about this kiss. It was all heat and need and a ferocious sort of hunger; Jean caught his plump bottom lip between her teeth and Lucien growled, and in the next moment the strong arms that had been wrapped around her waist, anchoring her to him, began to move. Two broad hands, calloused now from hard work where years before they had been soft and smooth, clenched hard around her bottom, and before Jean could draw in a ragged breath he lifted her. Her skirt bunched wet and heavy around her hips and her bare legs locked tight around his waist, and Lucien just held her steady, his hands clenched firmly around her bottom, his mouth devouring hers still more hungrily now that they were on the same level. He was strong enough to hold her up on his own, and so while they kissed, breathless, parting to gasp for a moment before diving back in, all wet tongues and bruised lips and searching teeth, her arms curled still tighter around him, both her hands in his hair, nails scratching his scalp, needing to feel him, all of him,  _now._

"You are  _mine,_ Lucien Blake," Jean whispered against his lips, her own tender skin stinging from the friction of his short beard and yet she could not stop kissing him, ducking back for another taste of his mouth before she spoke again. "And I will never let you go."

His hands clenched her hard enough to bruise, ground her hips against him so that through the thin satin of her knickers she could feel the heat of his lower belly against the warm wet ache between her thighs. Without a word he began to move, steady beneath the weight of her, his feet taking him towards the house, and though desire pulsed through her hot and fast as a lightning strike at the thought of Lucien laying her down amongst her pillows and filling her the way she had dreamed about for the last twelve years some shred of reason compelled her to speak.

With a gasp and a surge of disappointment sharp as knife between her ribs she pulled away from him, resting her forehead against his own. "We can't," she panted, the sound of her voice pulling him up short. "The children."

And then he grinned at her, in the darkness, the bright, boyish grin she had not seen on his face since the day he left her twelve years before. With one hand he held her aloft, as easily as if she weighed nothing at all, and with the other he reached out and cradled her cheek. "I have an idea," he said, and before she could ask what he was on about he was kissing her again, and his feet were moving, and nothing else matter but the winding of his tongue against her own, the cool wet of the rain binding them together, the way her need of him only grew with every step he took as her center ground against him. Her legs were trembling from the effort of holding him already, but she could not let him go, not for anything.

He could have carried her anywhere, in that moment, could have tossed her into the backseat of his father's car or lain her down amongst the mud and the grass, and she would not have protested, for so long as he was holding her tight, so long as he was kissing her, so long as he was  _there_ , locked in close in the shelter of her thighs, she would be content. She did not protest when his steps led them unfalteringly to the barn, where the shelter from the rain provided a welcome respite. The musty scent of hay and dirt and life surrounded them, Jean's blouse clinging to her like a second skin, his own shirt so thoroughly soaked that if she had leaned back in his arms she would have been able to make out the thin trail of hair leading from his chest down below the waistband of his trousers. As it was, however, they were wound together too tight for such exploration, and Jean could hardly think, so dire was her need of him.

When Lucien moved into the house at the start of winter they had left behind his little makeshift bed in the barn, the pallet frame and the lumpy but serviceable mattress, and it was there he led her now. Jean grinned into their kiss, breathless and more alive than she had felt since the day Christopher had left her four years before. Lucien was not leaving her, not now, not yet, had sworn his love and put to rest every reservation she had carried in her heart with the fire of his kiss. The time would come for contemplation, for confession, for discussion and absolution, but in this moment Jean had no desire for more whispered words. All she wanted, all she needed was him, his golden skin beneath her fingertips, the heat of him, the reassurance of his body wrapped around her own.

* * *

He had to have her. There had been too many moments, over the last nine months, when her beauty and her proximity had nearly bowled him over, when the only thing stopping him from taking her in his arms was the certainty that regardless of what he wanted from her, she did not feel the same. He knew better now, though. There had been a wildness in her, a frenzied, feverish need he recognized all too well, for he felt it himself. When she had caught hold of his arm, spun him around and forced him to face her, he had seen the need, the affection, the longing in her eyes, and in that moment he had known that whatever love they had cultivated so gently between them twelve years before had bloomed in full once more. She knew, now, what she had meant to him then, what she still meant to him; he had no secrets left. All that remained to him was her, the taste of her, the heat of her, the fire of her kiss, the desperate little sound she made when he bent and laid her out gently upon the bed.

The narrow cot was too small for both of them to lie together comfortably, but need and want and yearning had made him bold, and he endeavored to continue upon the path that he had chosen. Perhaps they could not have spent this night tangled up together in her bed, but he could still take her, make her his, completely, and he was determined to do so once again. For the last twelve years she had haunted his dreams, this woman bright and lovely, and to have her arms around him now was a gift more precious than he had ever dreamed of receiving. His child was alive, and in the morning he would start the journey to find her, to bring her home with him, but first this, this beautiful, rain-soaked night and the salty slickness of Jean's skin beneath his lips.

Goosebumps peppered both of their bodies from their soaking clothes, and as he bowed over her, her legs still wrapped tight around his waist though her back was resting on the cot, his hands fell to the buttons of her blouse and her own wrapped around his belt buckle and his tongue traced the shell of her ear. Lucien had never in his life felt a bliss like this, a joy so strong and so fierce and so all consuming that he feared his heart must surely burst from the strain of keeping it all inside. In a tangle of limbs, sticky and sliding together, they struggled with their clothes, their kisses sloppy and earnest and choked here and there by laughter as one or the other of them caught against their stubborn garments.

He slowed, for a moment, as he carefully peeled away her undergarments; Jean was blushing furiously beneath him, and he fancied he knew what she was thinking, for the same thoughts coursed through his own mind. The last time they had fallen together they had both of them been young and lovely and utterly unmarred by grief. So much time had passed, and they had both of them endured so much, and the scars and the losses of that time were etched into every line of their skin. Would this lovely woman still find him as appealing with the truth of him beneath her fingertips? For her part Jean surpassed his every expectation; every inch of her was lovely, soft and warm and beautiful, so bloody beautiful that the breath caught in his throat and tears threatened to gather in the corners of his eyes.

"Lucien," she sighed his name, her palm come to rest flat against his chest, just above his wildly beating heart. In her eyes he saw only approval, and a wanton, eager sort of yearning.

They had clashed together with such stupendous force that it had never occurred to him that perhaps to bring her here and strip her bare and take her hard and fast might have been taking things a step too far between them, and as he looked at her now he only considered such prudence for the shortest of moments. Beneath him she was glorious, neat breasts and the flare of her slim hips and the thatch of dark curls at her center brushing against his belly each time either of them breathed, and he knew in that moment what it was she wanted of him. He would give it to her gladly.

Propping himself up on one hand he hovered above her, passing kisses soft as the brush of a butterfly's wing between them while his free hand ghosted over her rain-slicked skin. He palmed her breast, traced the slope of her soft belly, kneaded her thigh gently, and all the while he kissed her, some of the sweetness leaving them as the long years of their loneliness began to take their toll, and baser need began to win out over tenderness. There would be other times, he told himself, nights when they had hours beyond count to spend together, to wind languorous and slow in and amongst one another with soft sheets at their backs. This was not one of those times. Yes, they were motivated by love, but also by desire, by heat, by the knowledge that this thing between them was fragile, and must be cemented quickly, before the opportunity passed them by.

Their teeth clashed and the insistence of her hips pressed him harder, and faster, his hardness dragging against her slippery folds and drawing a mewling sound of want from each of them. Jean was a small woman, slight and lovely and delicately built, but he knew from experience how wild, how headstrong she could be, how easily she could accept him, all of him, if given proper consideration first. And so his hand did not linger long upon her thigh as he chose instead to trace the shape of her sex with his fingertips, finding her hot and swollen and damp with need of him.

"Now, Lucien," she begged him breathlessly, telling him with just those two words that she was ready, that she was as hungry for him as he was for her, and Lucien could deny her nothing in that moment.

She reached for him, caught the thickness of his shaft in one small, warm hand, pumped him a few times while he groaned and repositioned himself above her, both of his hands now planted against the lumpy mattress. The moment he was steady he looked into her eyes, and drowned. Those eyes, glorious, beautiful, brighter than any star, were the same eyes that had watched him full of fear and adoration when he had divested her of her virtue so many years before, the same eyes that had haunted his dreams more nights than he cared to count. In those eyes he found his home, and he could not help but groan her name as she hitched her legs higher on his hips and drew him towards her.

The flared head of his shaft surged through her dripping folds and she cried out, low and soft and sweet as a song, and he gave thanks for his own foresight in leading her here, to this place where any sounds they made would be drowned out by the pounding of the rain, where they were free to be as wanton as they wished, with no one there to bear witness to their sins. Onward he moved, his hips driving forward as her own ground against him, his cock sliding further inside her with each thrust until at last he was fully sheathed inside her and she trembled all over, whimpering just a little, her thick eyelashes fluttering against her pale cheeks. She was close, so incredibly  _close,_ every detail of her clear and bright and beautiful and there for his perusal, and he could only stare at her in awe and desperate need. Jean lifted her hands, pressed her fingers hard to the ridges of scars upon his back, and then tilted her head, pressing a little kiss to the underside of his jaw.

" _Please,_ " she whispered.

And so he did as she asked. He lifted himself up on trembling arms, took a single breath, and then withdrew until he very nearly left her, her inner walls clutching at him, a little whine bubbling up from the back of her throat at the thought that he might leave her.

"Look at me, Jean," he breathed, staring down at her, needing her eyes on his face, needing that connection between them. One of her hands slipped lower on his back finding purchase against his bum and trying fecklessly to draw him into her once more, but when she saw that he would not be moved she sighed, and opened her eyes.

"I love you," Lucien told her again, and before she could answer he took a ragged breath, and slammed into her with everything he had.

The sound that left her then was like nothing he had ever heard, her head snapping back against the lumpy mattress, baring her neck to him, breasts arched up towards him and hard pebbled nipples rubbing enticingly against the plane of his chest as again and again he surged within her, harder, faster than he had ever dared move with her before. Jean was not complaining; she was panting and whimpering beneath him, but she followed his lead, begged him with every move of her body for more, for everything. And oh, but he would give it to her.

He set a rhythm all his own, slowing when she begged him to speed up, thrusting harder and harder each time the sound of her moans faltered, his whole will bent on nothing more than her, her pleasure, the softness, the heat of her wetness clutching at him. The chorus of their cries and the soft slap of flesh on flesh echoed loud in the dusty barn, but Lucien could hardly hear it for the rush of blood in his ears. Everywhere she touched him he burned for her, the friction and the heat and the desperate, stubborn love they had cultivated between them rising higher and higher until they were both of them lost beneath the tide.

It would not do to find his pleasure before she found hers, however, and so Lucien adjusted the angle of his thrusts, felt the slide of his cock against the softness of her sex, ground down against her intent upon giving her whatever she needed to plummet from the edge. She arched up hard against him, her whole body trembling, suspended for a moment as he continued to furiously thrust into the spasming of her muscles around him, but then, at last, she broke. It was glorious, the rapture of her, the fierce sound of her calling out his name, the way she held him as if she meant what she had said, and intended to never let him go.

He could not hold himself back. Perhaps he should have, should have taken note of how close he was to oblivion and withdrawn from her before he risked a calamity that neither of them were prepared for, but he was utterly incapable of conscious thought. The only thing he felt was need, burning deep in his gut, and Jean, clenched so tightly around him that he could do nothing but thrust deeper and deeper against her rapturous heat until at last release struck him hard and fast as lightning, and he was spilling himself inside her with a strangled groan.

* * *

They managed it, somehow; side by side they lay entwined, Lucien's arms wrapped tight around her, one of her legs cast over his hip, her lips pressed to the line of his throat and her heart thundering in her chest, his seed slowly drying on her quivering thighs. Perhaps it had been reckless, and sinful - certainly in the eyes of the church she'd tried so hard to be faithful to - to fall together with this man once more, but Jean had been lonely and longing for him for far too long, and she could not pull herself back from him, not now, when he'd laid his heart bare at her feet in supplication. The furious, feverish way he'd taken her left her aching and hungry for more, but she knew they could not take such a risk again until they had been honest with one another. There was so much she needed to tell him; how she had missed him, how wounded she had been to think that he had left her willingly, how she had come to love her Christopher, how Lily was his. That last point was perhaps the most important, but the truth stuck at the back of her throat, unwilling as she was to shatter this blissful moment. The time for that confession would come, she told herself. Just not now, not yet.

"Jean," Lucien whispered into the darkness. Outside the rain carried on, and the steady drumbeat of it playing out against the roof of the barn had nearly lulled her into sleep.

"Yes?" she answered him in a voice as low and soft as his had been.

"About the letter."

Jean tilted her chin back so that she could look into his eyes, her heart suddenly racing. Somehow she had forgotten about the letter that had started this business in the first place, but now she was eager to hear the truth of it from his lips.

"It was from a friend of Derek's in Shanghai. They've found my Li, in an orphanage outside the city."

Tears sprung to Jean's eyes, half from joy and half from fear, and when she looked at Lucien now, she could see the echo of her own heart in his face. She was alive, then, that little girl who had been the only thing keeping Lucien going for so many months, and the thought of him reunited with his child, the thought of the joy and the relief that would bring him, was enough to make Jean's heart sing. The fear lingered, however, for now she knew that she had been right, that Lucien did intend to leave her. She was not so callous as to think that he had only sworn his love and devotion to her in order to secure a tumble before he went, but still the thought of Lucien so far from her arms was a deeply troubling one.

"I'm going to Melbourne first thing in the morning," he continued. "And then I'm going to find her."

"Good," Jean forced herself to say, reaching out one trembling hand to cradle his cheek, tracing the line of his beard with her thumb. "I'm happy for you, Lucien."

"I'm going to get my little girl," he breathed in wonder, as if he could hardly believe it, but then he turned and kissed her palm once, gently. "And then I'm going to bring her home. I'm coming back, Jean, I swear it. I'm coming home to you."

He meant it, she knew. He meant every word. There was a fire in his eyes, the desperate love he carried for his child shining out of his every pore, but the set of his jaw told her that his mind was made up. Whatever happened next, wherever he went, he was determined to return to her.

"And I will be waiting here for you, Lucien," she swore. "For both of you."

Lucien drew her down to him for a fierce, blinding kiss, and they did not speak again for quite some time.


	27. Chapter 27

_24 September 1946_

It took three weeks. Three bloody, miserable weeks of traveling, of security checks, of endless meetings and endless reams of paperwork. Lucien was accompanied by his father's friend from Canberra, a reed-thin, beetle-eyed diplomat named Harold Wallace who spoke but rarely, and then only to complain about his distrust of the Chinese and communists in general. To keep the peace between them Lucien held his tongue, though he would have liked, very much, to have been free to point out to the man that the child they were going to rescue was half-Chinese and her predicament had not been caused by the communists so much as it had been by the abandonment of Malaya by the Brits. Now was not the time for fighting battles long since lost, and Lucien needed the man on side, but still, it chafed.

When they arrived in Shanghai they were met by the acquaintance of Derek's who'd written to Lucien in the first place, a stocky man called Zhang Wei. Though Zhang seemed most sympathetic to Lucien's story he could not simply release a child held by the Chinese government to the first white man who came along asking for her. There were endless rounds of discussion during which Lucien explained, again and again, how his family had come to be in this predicament, and long days when no news reached him at all, when he stewed in a hotel with Harold while the Chinese poured over his documentation and argued with one another over whether or not he was who he said he was. There was even at one point a rather nice dinner given in honor of the Australian visitors, but Lucien had little patience for such niceties. He had come for one reason, and one reason only, and the longer he was forced to wait the surlier he became. Had he only known where exactly they were keeping her he would have snuck out of his hotel at once and gone to fetch her himself, but they left him in the dark, probably for that very reason.

Through it all Lucien carried the small photograph of his family that had become his touchstone in his trouser pocket with him everywhere he went. More than once he had been asked to produce it, been forced to watch as the Chinese poured over it, comparing Li's face in the photo to a picture of the little girl they believed to be his child, though of course they did not give him the courtesy of handing over their picture. Li had only been four when he sent her away, when her mother died, when she was taken into the Chinese orphanage. Four long years had passed since then, and though Lucien saw her face quite clearly each time he closed his eyes he knew that surely over the intervening years she must have grown, must have changed. He did not doubt for a moment that he would recognize her the moment he saw her, that his heart would know her at any time, in any place, but he was equally certain that she would not know him. How could she? She had been so small, when last she saw her father, and she had endured so very much in the intervening years. He must surely be no more than a stranger to her now, and the thought sat heavy in his chest. Would she fear him? He wondered bleakly as his waiting stretched on interminably. What would it take to win back her love, her trust, this girl who was the very center of his world? Most nights he dreamed of her, as she had been, small and happiest when she was in her father's arms, curled on his lap while he read a book to her, squealing with delight when he lifted her onto his shoulders and cavorted about their bright garden while her mother looked on with fondness in her gaze. Those memories were more precious to him than gold, and yet he feared she would not share them, that there would be no happiness, no relief in her when he came for her.

He was so consumed with thoughts of Li that he spent little time in pondering the Beazley family and the way he and Jean had crashed together before he left. It had been frantic, and desperate, their impromptu tumble in the barn, but he could not bring himself to regret it. What had passed between them that night was not an act borne of simple lust, but rather one of love, a cataclysm they had been rushing towards from the moment he arrived on her doorstep so many months before. Lucien had loved that woman once, had loved her fiercely, had dreamed of making her his wife, but those heady feelings of youthful affection were nothing in comparison to the way he felt for her now. Now he knew her, the woman she had become, had seen the kindness of her heart, the resilience of her spirit, had come to treasure her children and every moment he was blessed to watch her care for them so tenderly, and he knew now that what he felt for her was a love he could never have imagined, before. Sometimes, when darkness had fallen and Harold was snoring from the other bed in their double room he lay awake, staring at the ceiling, trying to imagine what it would be like when he came home to Jean. He imagined her smile, imagined Li and the three little Beazleys playing together, imagined standing behind Jean with his arm around her waist and the soft scent of hair floating all around him, imagined all six of them safe and content. It was a dream he feared may never come to pass, for he did not know what sort of state Li would be in when he found her, but he clung to it. He wrote to Jean, once, to tell her that he had arrived safely, that he was doing all he could, that he would return to her as soon as he was able. No answer came, but then, he expected none. Lucien had long since lost all faith in the post.

At last, however, the day arrived. Zhang collected Lucien and Harold from the hotel in his fine black car, and drove them to the orphanage, a dismal, somewhat dilapidated building about an hour's ride outside the city. Their host chatted amiably in English as the miles rolled away, and Harold sucked his cheek and kept his silence, and Lucien stared out the window, trying to prepare himself for what was to come. In his mind he practiced the words he would say to her - in Chinese of course, for he feared that the English she'd spoken so well as a small child would have left her utterly after four years of speaking only Chinese - how he would tell her that he was her father, how he would call her  _xiǎo ɡōnɡ jǔ_   _\- "little princess" -_ just as he had done when she was small, would show her the photo of their little family, would swear to her that he loved her, that he would do anything for her, would protect her all of his days. He only prayed that it would be enough.

When at last they reached the orphanage he had to take a few deep breaths to tamp down the swell of grief and anger he felt, to think that so many children could be housed in such a place. It was drab and dirty and falling apart, just a bit, and the thought of his child kept prisoner - for lack of a better word- amidst such squalor and hopelessness left him raging at the circumstances that had brought him to this point. To his mind children deserved love, and safety, a warm bed and soft arms to hold them, and before he'd ever set foot inside the place he was certain that they found none of those things here.

Just inside the building they stopped while Zhang had a quiet conversation with a man who appeared to be something of a security guard-cum-gatekeeper. Harold of course spoke not a word of Chinese and looked on with a narrowed gaze, but Lucien listened intently. According to the stranger the children were in their dormitories, enjoying an hour of quiet time the way they did every afternoon. The man gave them directions to Li's quarters, and then they were moving again, Lucien's heart racing with every step he took.

This was it. This was everything he had waited for, longed for, lived for, every moment of the last four years. The thought of holding his child again, hearing her sweet little voice, salvaging his family was all that had kept him alive in the POW camp, all that kept him from drinking himself to death after. He had found hope and joy while he stayed with Jean and her family, but always,  _always_  it had been Li, driving him forward, giving him cause to keep going. And now she was so close, and he could not stop the trembling of his hands.

They made their way up a rickety flight of stairs, and then down a short hallway. Zhang opened the second door on their left without bothering to knock, and Lucien swept into the room behind him, eager and terrified. The room was large, and lined on either side with neat rows of little cots. A dozen or so young girls sat or slept on those cots in silence, with neither books nor toys to occupy them. The blankets were drab and grey, and there was no adornment upon the walls, no sign of art or life or childhood passions. Each girl was dressed the same, in grey rough-spun dresses, their long black hair held in a single plait that ran straight down their backs. A matronly looking woman with a severe sort of face was prowling down the center of the room, no doubt stationed there to enforce the mandated quiet, and she looked rather outraged as the three strange men came bustling in.

Though Zhang had entered the room first he took a step back now, gesturing for Lucien to come forward and claim his child. Harold remained stationed by the door with an unpleasant look upon his face, as if he could not wait to leave this place, but Lucien paid neither of them any mind. Lucien did not spare a moment to study their sparatan surroundings or to apologize to the matron for disturbing her; his eyes were fixed on the little girls, taking them in one by one, desperately searching for some sign of his Li, that precious child he ached to hold in his arms once more.

She found him before he found her; as he advanced down the center of the room there came a great commotion from the last bed on the right. The little girl who had been resting there had leapt to her feet and gone rushing out, screaming in a broken voice that tore at Lucien's heartstrings. Before he could even process what was happening the matron had caught hold of her, twisting her arm, hissing at her to keep still, to be quiet, to return to her bed. The girl struggled for all she was worth, and for a moment, a single, frozen instant, Lucien could do no more than gape at her.

The girl was taller than the rest of her cohorts, with a sweet soft face and huge dark eyes, and even from this distance Lucien could see that she favored her mother. The sound of her voice, shrill and desperate, lanced through him sharper than any knife.

"Papa! Papa!" Little Li shrieked, her voice so scared and so desperate that he could not help but recall the day he'd sent her away, her little arms reaching out for him so desperately. The pain he had felt then paled in comparison to the wave of sheer unbridled joy that washed over him now. He did not spare a moment for wondering how she could possibly recognize him after all this time; she did, and she was here, and that was enough.

"Let her go!" Lucien roared in Chinese as he began striding across the room as fast as his trembling legs would carry him. The woman who had been trying to hold Li back released her at once, shocked by the sound of this white stranger shouting in her own tongue. The moment Li was free she came racing towards him, tears streaming down her cheeks as she babbled at him in a broken mix of English and Mandarin. In a moment she was in Lucien's arms; they crashed together, Lucien lifting her easily, cradling her close while she cried  _papa, papa,_ little arms wrapped around his neck and clinging to him for dear life. Lucien was so overwhelmed and overcome he sank to the floor right then and there with Li in his arms, tears flowing freely down his cheeks. She was  _here,_ alive and whole and calling his name, and he was so relieved and so overjoyed he could hardly think. All the pain and all the misery of the last four years had been worth it, he thought, for this moment, for this chance to hold his daughter once again.

"It's all right," he told her, his voice wrecked by tears. "I've got you. You're safe."


	28. Chapter 28

_29 September 1946_

It was a fine Sunday afternoon; spring had arrived, and brought with it blue skies and the first sudden burst of flowers in bloom. They had spent the morning at Sacred Heart, same as they did every week, and Jean had closed her eyes and silently sent up a prayer for Lucien's wellbeing, same as she did every week. In the evenings she whispered a rosary for him and one for Li, kneeling by the side of her bed, but there was something about saying a prayer beneath the high arching ceiling and stained glass windows of the church that made Jean feel as if her entreaties were more likely to be heard there. Lucien had been gone for nearly a month, and she had so far only received one letter, a relatively brief missive assuring her that he was well and that he sent his affection to her and the children, that he would return to them as soon as he was able. It was not enough, and yet it was all that she had to cling to, and so she treasured that letter, tucked it away inside an old wooden box with all the letters Christopher had sent her before he died.

That afternoon the children were playing on the bright green grass while Jean sat still and contemplative on the old wooden bench beneath her favorite eucalyptus tree, a book held loosely in her hands though in truth she was making no effort to read it. She watched her children, the nature of their game quite indecipherable from this distance, though it would be appear there was much squabbling over the rules. There was nothing new in that; Lily had just turned twelve, and seemed always determined to boss her brothers about. Jack had never taken kindly to instruction of any sort, and tended towards combativeness for its own sake. Jean worried about him, sometimes, worried what sort of an impact growing up without a father would have upon her youngest child. It had been so long since Christopher left, and she knew Jack had no conscious memories of him. Now Lucien had gone as well, just as Jack was beginning to trust him, to care for him. Oh, Lucien had sworn to her that he would return, with his arms wrapped tight around her and his lips brushing against her temple, but Jean would not bring herself to believe it was real, that he was really coming home to her, until she saw him once more walking up her long dirt drive.

Over the last month or so Jean had spent rather a lot of time thinking about Lucien, about the manner of his return, about what sort of child his daughter might be - if in fact she had been found, if his friends in China had not been mistaken - about what would happen to all of them, after. The fire of his kiss, the swell of love and longing that had burst within her when he told her the truth, told her how he had wanted to marry her all those years before, had shaken her to her very core. Some nights she dreamt of him, warm and solid in her bed, and some mornings she woke weeping, certain that he would leave her once again. He had what he wanted now, had finally found his daughter, and though Jean rejoiced for him, though she shared in his relief at the thought that Li was well and would at last be reunited with him, she could not help but wonder if he might soon decide that he had no more use for her. The farmhouse was small and cramped as it was, and there was hardly room for another child to stay with them, and it would hardly be proper, for them to continue on playing at happy families. He had seemed so certain, when he left her all those weeks before, but Lucien Blake was nothing if not changeable. His moods varied more often than the weather, and perhaps now that he was no longer locked in a state of endless waiting he would turn his eyes to the future, and decide that he wanted more for himself than the quiet life of a farmer.

In the midst of those bleak thoughts the sound of tires crunching on the drive echoed loud as gunfire. Jean was on her feet in a moment, scanning the horizon, her eyes locked at once at the lumbering form of Doctor Blake's car meandering across the dirt. Her heart was in her throat; the last time she'd seen that car, Lucien had been driving it, the morning he kissed her cheek in the first faint light of dawn before turning away with his shoulders squared and his army pack slung across his back. Was this finally it? She asked herself as she watched the car's approach. Had Lucien come back to her at last? She reached up and patted her hair subconsciously, wishing she'd chosen a different dress, wishing she'd thought to put the kettle on.

The sound of little feet came tearing up behind her, and in a moment Lily was there, tugging on her sleeve.

"Mama?" she said in a little voice full of hope. "Is it Lucien? Has he come back?"

Jack didn't wait for Jean's response; he took off running, as fast as his little legs would carry him, and met the car as it came to a stop by the front door. For her part Jean could hardly think, so overcome with doubt and reckless hope was she. It had been a long month of waiting, of reliving every second of his hands upon her skin, and there was nothing she wanted more than to see him once again, to trace the line of his beard with her thumb, to know that he was alive and well and  _hers_ , once more.

The hopes of the Beazley family were dashed in a moment, however, for it was not Lucien who stepped from the car. Thomas Blake unfolded himself from the driver's seat quite slowly, looking terribly out of place in his pressed blue suit and his fine hat. Even from a distance Jean could see the way Jack's shoulders slumped in defeat before he turned away from the doctor and - to Jean's dismay - disappeared into the house without saying a single word to the gentleman. That was no way to greet a man who had treated them so generously, and Jean was mortified at the thought of the image they must have presented, the children grass stained and surly and Jean just standing there gawping at him. She rushed forward in a moment, determined to put things to rights.

"Doctor Blake!" she called breathlessly as she approached. Lily and Christopher trotted along obediently behind her, having taken more of their mother's lessons on civility to heart than Jack had done. They had gotten to know the old man quite well, having spent many a Saturday morning entertaining themselves in his home, and he had always been kind to them. The children had never known either of their grandfathers; Christopher's father died when he was young, and her own had been quite cold following the announcement of her first pregnancy. She supposed Thomas Blake had filled that position in their absence, though as she reached him she realized quite suddenly that he in fact  _was_ Lily's grandfather. It was not an altogether unpleasant thought, but it brought with it an old familiar surge of guilt.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Beazley," he said politely. "I hope I'm not intruding."

"Not at all," Jean assured him at once. They stood together somewhat awkwardly for a moment, and Jean's mind began to run wild, wondering why on earth he had come. Was it something to do with Lucien? Had something happened to him? She couldn't bear the thought of it.

"I received a telegram from Lucien," Thomas said after a moment. "He and Li are well, and should be home some time next week."

At those words Jean very nearly burst into tears. She had swung from terror to relief so quickly that it left her feeling rather dizzy, and for a moment she brushed a hand across her face, trying to find some reserve of strength, some well of fortitude to stop her falling apart completely.

"Would you like a cup of tea?" she asked in a faint little voice.

Thomas simply nodded, and followed her into the house.

"Did he say when he'll be back?" Lily asked excitedly as they trooped towards the kitchen. "Will they come here? Will I get to meet her? Will they stay with us?"

The doctor looked somewhat taken aback by her sudden torrent of questions, and Jean did not trust her nerves to hold out should he actually start answering any of them.

"Lily, love," she said reprovingly, "don't bother the good doctor. You and your brothers go back outside and play."

She spoke in a tone that brooked no argument, and though Lily looked faintly mutinous Christopher turned at once to follow his mother's command, and Lily had no choice but to follow him. As he took a seat at the table, old Doctor Blake was smiling, just a bit.

"She's full of questions, isn't she?"

"I'm so sorry, Doctor Blake," Jean said earnestly as she started the kettle, but the doctor waved her apology away with a casual hand.

"I don't mind at all, Mrs. Beazley. A little curiosity is natural in children. Lucien was much the same, when he was a child."

A terrible, uncomfortable sort of silence fell in the wake of his declaration. Jean did not dare look at him, knowing that her cheeks were flaming, that likely he would be able to read her face with a single glance, and begin to guess at that truth she had tried so hard to hide.  _Does he know?_ She thought, somewhat panicked, as she tried to steady her hands and focus on her tea.  _Has he guessed? Oh, god, what will I do if he has?_

"I'm sorry I haven't come sooner," Doctor Blake said, finally, mercifully breaking the tension that had swaddled Jean like a blanket.

"Please, you shouldn't feel any obligation-"

"This is Lucien's home now, Jean," Thomas cut across her attempt at graciousness at once, and she turned to stare at him, shocked into silence by the sincerity of his voice, by the truth falling so plainly from his lips. He was still smiling, she saw. There was no accusation, no judgement in him, and Jean wondered at that. Given everything Lucien had told her about his falling out with his father, she half expected the man to detest her. And yet he sat at her worn kitchen table, smiling.

"He has come to love his life here," Doctor Blake continued. "Spending time with your family has made him happy, Mrs. Beazley, and for that I can't thank you enough. I had thought he would never be happy again, after his mother died."

With a cup of tea clutched tight in each of her hands Jean made her way over to him, carefully placing one cup down in front of him before taking a seat herself. Her mind was racing, and she could not think of a single thing to say. Yes, she had hoped that Lucien was happy here, had tried to believe him when he told her that he was, but to hear it from his father, spoken as simply and as plainly as if it were an incontrovertible truth, left her feeling somewhat overwhelmed. She wanted Lucien to be happy there, with her, more than anything else in the world, wanted him to make good on the proposal she'd never received, wanted him in her bed, wanted their children safe and healthy. She  _wanted_ , but she did not dare express such desires, not to this man who had been responsible for destroying her dreams in the past.

"I feel I owe you an apology, Jean," Doctor Blake said earnestly, leaning towards her with beseeching eyes. For her part Jean nearly choked on her tea, for she could not recall Doctor Blake having ever used her given name before.

"I don't know what Lucien's told you," he said, "but it's all my fault, you see. I'd found out that you were...spending time together, and I told him to call it off. That's why he left. And I did you a great disservice, Jean. I can see that now. I've watched you and your family over the years, and I have to say I was a fool. I would have been proud, to have you for a daughter-in-law."

To her utter shock, Jean saw tears standing in the corners of the doctor's eyes, and she felt the sting of her own emotion swelling up inside her. Impulsively she reached out and covered his hand with her own where it rested against the table. It had cost him dearly, she knew, to set aside his dignity and speak to her so plainly, to offer her such an apology, and she was all but dumbfounded by the thought that he held her in such esteem, that he had taken account of their situation, just as she had done, had wondered at how their lives might have diverged where it not for the belligerence he'd displayed in his younger days.

"Perhaps if I'd been more understanding, Lucien never would have gone to war," the doctor continued in a weary voice. "He's suffered so much, and I-"

"You didn't make that choice for him, Doctor Blake," Jean insisted at once. "We don't know what might have happened, and we can't waste time wondering about it. All that we can do is live now, as we are."

And then she realized she was still touching him, and so she gave his hand a gentle squeeze and withdrew. Thomas heaved a great, weary sigh, and ran a hand across his face.

"You're right, of course, Jean," he agreed. "You made a family for yourself, and I must compliment you on raising three lovely children. And Lucien...well, he's all right now. He'll be home in a few days, and I'll get to meet my granddaughter."

 _One of your granddaughters,_ Jean thought bleakly, though she did not dare give voice to such a thought. Doctor Blake seemed so happy at the thought of having Lucien and Li home again, and in truth Jean herself was so overjoyed at the prospect that she chose to focus instead on the good tidings he'd brought her, to follow her own advice and not waste a moment in lament for mistakes long since made. Lucien was safe, he had found his child, and they were coming home. Whatever happened next she would face it with her chin held high, the way she always did.


	29. Chapter 29

_29 September 1946_

Lucien supposed he shouldn't have been surprised by the glacial pace of the repatriation proceedings for Li; bureaucracies, he'd found, were the same the world over, regardless of ideology or language. There were formalities to be observed, boxes to tick, irate politicians to appease, documents to be drawn up. For the first time in many years he was grateful for his military service, for it was thanks to the dutiful recording keeping of the Army that he had any paperwork at all to verify his marriage and the birth of his child, as the little chapel where he'd been married, the hospital where Li was born, and the local government records office had all been destroyed by Japanese shelling. The Chinese would never have released his child to him without that paperwork, and no matter how he told himself that if they would not let her go he would take her by main force, he knew that one battered soldier with trembling hands was no match for the might of the entire Chinese government. He kept his mouth closed and his hand wrapped around Li's at all times, watching the haggling of the diplomats and trying to keep his temper even.

In the end the Chinese relented. They believed that the best place for Li was that orphanage just outside Shanghai, Lucien knew, believed that she would be corrupted and mistreated in the West, but they could not deny that Lucien was her father, not now, not after all of the evidence he'd supplied and the way his child clung to him so fiercely, and they knew better than to try to keep her. Little Li would become a rallying cry for the West, should the Chinese choose to refuse to let her leave, and the last thing they needed was to bring the might of the British Empire down upon their necks for the sake of one child. A departure date was set, and Harold Wallace proved his worth for the first time since they had arrived in Shanghai, arranging flights and cars and sending a telegram to Lucien's father on his behalf. Just four more days, and then Lucien and Li would be home once more. He had no idea what would happen next, where they would go from here, but he longed for that future, the freedom to go where he wished and do as he wished and look after his child in the manner that seemed most appropriate to him without this constant scrutiny.

For the duration of their stay a second room had been secured at the hotel so that Lucien and Li might be allowed a little privacy. It was a relief to Lucien to no longer share his space with Harold Wallace and his constant grumbling and elephantine snores, but at the same time the sensation of suddenly being a father once more, being constantly within his child's line of sight, feeling keenly the weight of his responsibility for her upon his shoulders, was somewhat unsettling. He'd spent the last nine months playing happily with Jean's children, but their safety, their education, their well-being had never been his sole burden to bear; that duty belonged to Jean and Jean alone. He found his respect for her only deepened as he recalled the many years she'd spent looking after all three of her little ones all by herself; she truly was a remarkable woman, his Jean.

On this particular Sunday evening, four days before they were set to depart for Australia, Lucien and Li were sitting together on his bed, discussing their travel plans and what she could expect when they arrived in Australia. Li retained a little of the English she'd spoken so well when she was small, but she was hesitant and shy about using it, and so for the most part they conversed in Mandarin. Lucien dearly hoped that once they were in Australia and surrounded by people who spoke English constantly she would grow more confident, but in the meantime he was determined to do whatever he could to make her as comfortable as possible.

"Do you have a house?" she asked him eagerly. The lessons of the orphanage had been ingrained upon her very soul; she was sitting cross-legged on the end of his bed, facing him as he leaned against the headboard, her back ramrod-straight and her hands folded neatly in her lap. Li spoke in a soft voice and did not fidget or flit about as some children did; she was reserved and courteous at all times, and insisted on continuing to wear her long dark hair in a single braid, just as she had done at the orphanage. Lucien had purchased a few new dresses for her while they waited for their liberation, desperate to bring some color to her world, knowing how drab it had been, and he smiled at her now, to see her dressed in a soft floral pattern rather than the hopeless gray roughspun dress the orphanage had given her. He wanted to shower her with gifts, with toys and books and everything a little girl could possibly dream of, but each time he took her to a shop and offered to buy her anything she wanted Li demurred, saying she had no need of any of it. Flying in the face of her words Lucien had purchased a small stuffed rabbit for her, and though Li never touched it during the daytime she clutched it close to her chest while she slept, and the sight of her cuddling with that little toy brought tears to his eyes each time he gazed upon her.

"Not exactly," Lucien answered slowly. With that one question Li had hit upon the very thing that worried Lucien most of all. Where would they stay, once they returned to Ballarat? More than anything he wanted to see Jean again, wanted to hold her, wanted the grace and the comfort of her proximity, wanted to see Li playing with the Beazley children, happy and without a care. He wanted the sun on his face and the dirt under his feet, the freedom he found beneath the endless expanse of sky, but the farm brought in little enough money as it was, and he feared he would not be able to provide the best life for his child if he remained there. Lucien had no idea how to reconcile the warring desires of his heart, and he was fast running out of time in which to make a plan.

"My father has a house," he explained, seeing Li's quizzical look. "It's big and grand, and I think you'll like it very much. I have been working on a farm and staying with the family there, but I'm not sure that you and I will live with them. Once we get there and get settled I think it would be good for us to find our own place to live." The thought of setting up house anywhere Jean was not tore at his heartstrings, but he had Li to worry about, and Jean's reputation besides. One thing at a time, he told himself.

As he spoke Li's expression had grown somewhat concerned, and her next question stunned him.

"Are they cruel, this family you work for?"

Lucien had heard all the dark whispers about the goings-on in the Chinese countryside, the spread of famine, the violence, the way the government was constantly expanding its control, and he imagined that Li had heard much the same, and drawn some unpleasant conclusions about his circumstances. That had to be corrected at once.

"Not at all," he said firmly. "The woman who owns the farm is an old friend of mine, and she is very kind. She has three wonderful children, and I think you may become friends with them, in time. I hope that you will."

Li looked as if she didn't entirely share his optimism, but she did not press the issue. Though they had only just begun the process of getting to know one another once again, Lucien had come to learn many things about her, including the fact that she did not easily voice dissent; her eyes would darken, or her brow would furrow in a way that reminded him alarmingly of Jean, but she would not dare give voice to her thoughts. In that moment, however, Lucien felt it was very important that he reassure her, that he try to soothe her as best he could.

"She has three children," he said again. "Lily is twelve, and Christopher is ten, and Jack is almost eight, just like you. They like to play games, and I think they would like very much to play with you." Lucien wasn't sure how much playing the children had done at the orphanage, if they were given dolls or footballs or a chance to run beneath a warm blue sky, but he dearly hoped that with some time Li might be willing to engage in such childlike frivolity, that she might shed some of the weight that seemed to rest upon her little shoulders and begin to enjoy her life in Australia.

"What about their father?" Li asked, and for a moment Lucien was taken aback by her insight in asking such a question. He had told her of Jean and the children, and Li had seen at once that he made no mention of Christopher. A sense of dread heavy as a stone settled in his gut, for in truth he had been trying very hard not to think of the man. Yes, Christopher had been dead for years, but Lucien had held his hand as he left the world behind, had made a promise to deliver his final letter to his family, and then Lucien had taken the man's wife to his bed. It was hardly the sort of treatment Christopher deserved, given how much he had clearly loved his wife and his children, given Lucien's suspicions about Lily's parentage and the motivations behind Christopher and Jean's sudden marriage. Christopher Beazley had been selfless and brave, and Lucien had repaid his kindness with selfishness. The thought of it was nearly enough to make him sick to his stomach.

"He was a soldier, like me," Lucien said slowly. "He was very brave and very kind, but he did not survive the war."

Li's face paled - if such a thing were possible - and her dark eyes widened. For the most part Li took her after her mother in appearance, the delicate lines of her face, the shine of her hair, her slight build, but she was tall for her age, like Lucien, and her eyes reminded him of his own, in expressiveness if not in color. He wondered then what she knew of the war, what sort of tales she had been told about the Western troops and their actions, wondered if anyone in the orphanage had known that her father was a soldier, and what they might have said to her about that fact. That was not a conversation he had considered having with her just yet; his past was full of dark and haunting things, and Li had endured enough already. He watched her, wondering if this would be the moment when she asked him what he had done as a soldier, why he had been so long away from her, dreading it and yet knowing that he would answer any question she put to him as honestly and as tenderly as he could, knowing that she deserved that much from him.

As she sat still and contemplative before him she reached up and brushed the tips of her fingers against the little gold necklace she wore. That necklace had been with her from the moment he discovered her, though she always wore it hidden beneath her clothes; it seemed to be the only personal possession Li had in the world, before Lucien had reclaimed her. He had only ever caught a glimpse of the chain, and he suddenly found himself quite curious about it.

" _X_ _iao gong zhu,"_  he said, calling her  _little princess,_ the way he always did, "may I see your necklace?"

For a moment Li hesitated; he rather got the sense that she did not show that necklace to anyone, that she did not easily share any piece of herself with another, but the orphanage had beat a certain deference to authority into her, and she would refuse him nothing. The last thing Lucien wanted was her unwavering obedience - in fact, just the thought of it troubled him a great deal - but they had only just begun to adjust to one another, and he hoped that in time she might relax around him, might grow more comfortable with a looser sort of arrangement between them. At last she reached up and unclasped her necklace, dutifully holding it out to him for his inspection.

Lucien took it, trying to be gentle, intending to say something reassuring to her, but his breath caught in his throat as he realized what it was he held in his hands. On the end of that fine gold chain there dangled a little heart-shaped locket, and he recognized it at once, for he had given it to his wife to celebrate the birth of their beloved daughter. His hands began to shake as he worked the clasp open, as he gazed at the little photographs inside. One side of the heart held a picture of his own face, younger than he was now, less worried, beaming brightly for his life at that time had been full of joy. The photo on the other side brought tears to his eyes, for smiling up at him from that little locket was his wife, that delicate face he had once loved so well, that face he had not seen for four long years now, and would never see again, save in photographs like this one.

The full force of his loss, of his child's loss, of all the grief that they had endured, struck him like a hammerblow in that moment. He had been so long without Mei Lin by his side that his heart had hardened, a bit, that he thought of her but rarely, and then only in fond nostalgia. He had not thought of her since the night he'd taken Jean into his arms, had not thought of all the promises he'd made to her, had not in his joy and his fear spared a moment to wonder how differently his reunion with his child might have gone, if only his wife had lived to see it. But he thought of her now, with her face staring up at him from that little black and white photo. He thought of the terror she must have felt, as the ship that was meant to carry her to safety became her tomb, as she gave this necklace to Li and placed her on the life raft, as her own life slipped away from her beneath the cold, unforgiving waves. He wondered what she would think of him, falling headfirst in love with Jean once more, taking her to his bed and holding her tight rather than living out his days in mourning for the woman who had taken his name and borne his child. He thought of Li, who must have known what became of her mother, who must have missed her every day while she was held in that bleak orphanage, and a swell of self-loathing and rage began to rise up within him. He tried to hold it at bay, for Li's sake, but he could not help feeling in that moment that he had failed them both, the wife he had all but forgotten, the child who had been left alone in squalor and distress.

With trembling hands he closed the locket and returned it to Li at once. She snatched it out of his hand and clasped it around her neck in a moment, and he realized then how difficult it must have been for her to protect this piece of her history, this one tenuous connection to her family, while the orphanage had done its best to stamp out her memories.

"I knew your face," Li told him slowly as she tucked the locket back beneath her dress. " _Mama_  gave it to me, while we were on the boat, because I was sad. I did not want to forget you."

Though Li was not a particularly demonstrative child Lucien had never been any good at containing his emotions or his affections, and he reached out to her at once, his heart aching. He did not grab her, did not haul her to him, knowing how reserved she was and wanting to respect her desire for space, but he held out his arms to her, wanting her to know that he was there for her, now and always, that she would never be alone, ever again. She hesitated, but only for a moment, and then she was crawling into his lap, little arms thrown out around his neck as he held her close.

"I'm so sorry, love," Lucien breathed, trying very hard to be strong for her, though his heart was aching. "I'm so sorry."


	30. Chapter 30

_3 October 1946_

"It's all right, darling," Lucien told her softly. Beside him Li was kneeling on her seat, her face pressed close to the window as the train slowed, drawing ever closer to Ballarat station. The train was crowded, and many of their fellow passengers had been open in their displays of interest, to see a small Chinese girl sitting among them, to see Lucien speaking to her quietly in her own tongue. Few of those passengers would be disembarking here, however, for which Lucien was grateful; he did not want his return to Ballarat to be cause for any sort of scene, to set the rumor mills to spinning once again. He was exhausted, physically worn out from his travels and emotionally drained from the tensions and revelations of the last month. All he wanted was to go  _home._

He wanted to see Jean, to take her in his arms, to kiss her soundly, to fall asleep with her body nestled close to his own, but Li had to be his primary concern, and to that end he had arranged for Thomas to fetch them from train station, and take them back to his home for supper and a chance to rest. Li had already undergone so very many changes, and he knew that Ballarat and everything that went with it would be overwhelming enough for her without adding a whole host of chattering people whose names and faces were unfamiliar to her. A quiet evening at Thomas's house, a hardy breakfast in the morning, would serve her well, and then he could load her up and take her off to the farm to meet the Beazleys.  _One thing at a time,_ he told himself, as he had done over and over from the moment he first learned that he would be allowed to take Li home with him.

The train lumbered to a stop and Lucien rose to his feet at once, loading his old army pack - which contained his belongings as well as Li's - onto his shoulders. Through the window he could spy his father, made conspicuous by his bristling mustache and hat and cane, and he smiled as Li turned to him. There was fear in her eyes, but when he held out his hand to her she took it without question and slid out of her seat.

"It's all right," Lucien told her again. Li did not respond, but she gripped his hand a little tighter as they disembarked from the train.

Out on the pavement there were a few people gathered, waiting to collect loved ones and watching Lucien with some interest, but he could not spare a moment for them and their stares for his father had spotted them and was even then rushing over to greet them.

"Lucien," he said warmly, reaching out to shake his hand. "Welcome home, son."

"Thank you," Lucien said. He looked down at Li, who was staring at her grandfather apprehensively, and gave her hand a little squeeze. "This is Li." For the most part Lucien had been speaking to Li in Mandarin, but he had been encouraging her to work on her English, and they had practiced a few key phrases.

"Hello, grandfather," she said in a timid little voice. Her accent reminded Lucien of her mother's so very strongly that there were moments when it nearly brought tears to his eyes, but it was not the sound of her voice that caused his throat to constrict with emotion now. Rather it was the tender look on his father's face, and the way he clasped his hands round the top of his cane and leaned down as far as he could to speak to her.

"Hello, my darling girl," he said. Even a year before Lucien would scarcely have believed that his father had it in him, to be so gentle, so kind, so welcoming, and yet the last few months had shown him firsthand just how very much his father had changed, and he was unspeakably grateful for this chance to introduce his father to Li, to make their little family whole once more.

"Did you have a good trip?"

Li looked to Lucien, who translated the question for her briefly, and then she smiled softly at her grandfather. "Yes, thank you," she said.

Thomas straightened up, turning his face away as if to hide the sheen of tears in his eyes, but Lucien saw them just the same, and he loved him for it. "Let's go home, shall we?"

Lucien readily agreed, and scooped Li into his arms at once. Though she was taller than most of the other girls she'd lived with at the orphanage she had not yet grown so big that her father could not hold her easily, and so he cradled her close as they crossed the street to reach Thomas's car. He stowed Li in the back and then took his seat alongside her, and she reached for his hand at once, clinging to him fiercely as they began the brief journey to his father's house. Ballarat was nothing like Shanghai; it was far less crowded, and Lucien knew that what people they did see must have looked very strange to Li's eyes. He hoped that with time she would grow more comfortable here, but until then he was more than happy to offer her whatever comfort she needed. He spoke to her quietly as they drove along, told her the names of the buildings and the shops and the goods that could be purchased there, explained what the people were doing, and she soaked it all in, clever and curious despite her fear. For the first time in a very long time Lucien's heart was light, for they were, at last, going home.

* * *

"She's a lovely girl, Lucien," Thomas told him softly, holding out a glass of whiskey. Lucien accepted it with a nod of thanks, taking a long sip.

They had shared a pleasant dinner together, the three of them, though Li spoke but little. Lucien had played interpreter, but her grandfather's kindly demeanor had encouraged her, and Li had done her best to answer every question put to her in English. The day had been rather trying, however, and she was at that very moment asleep on her father's lap. Lucien held her close with one arm while the other rested against the side of the sofa, cradling his whiskey. He was exhausted, as well, but he was so bloody glad to be back in Australia that he made no move to leave. He could do this, could spend some time in the sitting room with his father, could answer the questions that Thomas did not dare raise while Li was awake.

"I'm afraid she has not had an easy life," Lucien confessed sadly. Now was not the moment, he knew, to explain the dismal orphanage, the hard-eyed proprietor, the hopelessness he'd found her in, the locket she had clutched as a talisman for all the years she was separated from her father. There was heartbreak in her past, but he hoped that her future would be full of joy, and he was loath to raise the specter of her pain now.

"She's here now, that's what matters," Thomas said firmly.

Lucien heartily agreed.

"What will you do next, Lucien?" Thomas asked as he settled more firmly into his armchair.

The truth was Lucien had no idea how to answer that question. He had been so focused on getting home that he had spent precious little time thinking about the next steps, and when he had chanced to ponder his choices the sheer weight of them had borne down so heavily upon him that he had recoiled from them, rather than actively sought to find his way through the mess. Now that they were home, however, he had no excuses left; something had to be done, and soon.

Perhaps his indecision showed on his face, for Thomas leaned towards him, and spoke earnestly then.

"Lucien," he said, "she needs a home. She needs stability. I know you've been comfortable at the farm, but surely you know that it wouldn't be appropriate to take her there. I doubt Jean has the room."

That was true enough. The boys shared one room, though Lily had her own, but the house was cramped already, and it would only get worse as the children grew. Besides, much as he might love her, Lucien was not married to Jean, had not even asked her, was not even sure if he should, and he could not move his child into her house under those circumstances.

"We have three empty bedrooms here," Thomas said with a certain twinkle in his eye. "And your mother's studio could easily be converted into a fourth."

Lucien stared at his father, dumbstruck. The fog of exhaustion swirling through his mind made it hard for him to think, to reason why his father would have suggested such a thing, and he was far too disoriented from his travels to even hazard a guess.

"What are you-"

"I'm saying, there's plenty of room here. Matthew Lawson said you did a fine job, filling in for me as police surgeon, and I don't want to work forever. You could take over my practice, Lucien, and work for Matthew as needed. I know you'd do brilliantly. And there's enough room here for your family, whatever you decide."

Lucien drained his glass in one go and then placed it down on the sidetable, his thoughts in chaos. There was room enough here, for the children, for him, for Jean, there was work to be done, money to be made, and his father was not only amenable to such a state of affairs, he'd brought it up himself.  _Your family...w_ _hatever you decide._ How could it be, he wondered, that Thomas Blake of all people, Thomas who had been so unyielding in his youth, who had been so deadset against Lucien spending time with Jean, could be the first to suggest that Lucien marry her, and join their families together? How could it be that  _Thomas_ was the one who had guessed at the desires of his son's heart, and endeavored to find a way forward for him?

_Jean loves the farm...I don't know if I'm ready to be a doctor again...what will the children think...what if she says no?_

There were a million questions bouncing round his mind now, and his head began to ache beneath the weight of all that uncertainty.

"I don't know…" he began slowly, but he could think of no way to end that sentence without unburdening himself rather more than he intended to. Thomas didn't seem to mind.

"Of course not," he said sagely. "You've only just come home. You have time, Lucien, you don't have to make up your mind right now. Just know, you have the option available to you, should you decide it's what you want."

Thomas had given Lucien much to think about, but he would have to think about it later, for at present he could hardly keep his eyes open. They sat in silence a little while longer, and then Lucien carried Li up the stairs to the room that had been his when he was a boy. She stirred as he tucked her into bed, and reached for him. Lucien's limbs were as heavy as his heart and so he gave into her at once, sliding beneath the sheets and falling asleep next to his child.

* * *

_4 October 1946_

The sound of tires on the drive pulled Jean away from her tea and to the front door at once. For days now she had been waiting; Doctor Blake had told her that Lucien was coming home some time this week, and as it was already Friday she was sick to death of being patient. She flung the door open, and through the cloud of dust she could just make out the shape of Doctor Blake's car, drawing ever closer.

Nervously she smoothed her hands down the front of starched brown skirt, wishing she had thought to put on something a little nicer. This was it, she knew, the moment Lucien would come back to her, and her heart was racing, her hands trembling. For a month she had been waiting, eager and anxious, desperate for news of him, playing through their reunion in her mind a thousand times over, utterly unsure of how things would go between them when the time came. Now it was too late for plans and flights of fancy; he was  _here,_  and she was out of time.

Jean very nearly wept, as she watched Lucien unfold himself from the driver's seat, as he rose to his full height and went round to open the back door of the car. It was not until that precise moment that Jean realized he must have Li with him, and she tried to steady her nerves, fought down the impulse to race across the dirt and fling herself into Lucien's arms, to wrap her legs around his waist and kiss him with everything she had. For Li's sake she knew she had to hold herself back, had to be cautious; the poor dear had been through so much, and Jean did not want to startle or unsettle her with any grand displays of affection that she could not possibly have understood.

In a moment they were walking towards her, Lucien and his little girl. Li wore a pale blue dress patterned in white flowers, a single black braid tumbling straight down her back. There was little of her father in her face, from this distance, but she seemed a lovely little girl, the way she stared at everything around her with wide eyes, the way she clung to Lucien's hand. And if Jean's heart broke, just a little, to think that she might never see Lily holding her father's hand so tightly, so trustingly, she did her best to push her personal grief aside. This meeting was not about her or the mistakes of her past; this was about Li.

"Hello, Jean," Lucien said as they drew level with her. For a month, Jean had been longing to hear his voice, to hear him say her name, to have him back here where he belonged, and the sight of him was a balm to her weary soul. Deciding that perhaps a little affection would not go amiss - given the look of trepidation upon Lucien's face - Jean decided to allow herself one small indulgence. She placed her hand upon his shoulder and lifted herself onto her toes to press a kiss to his bearded cheek.

"Welcome home, Lucien," she said softly.

He smiled warmly at her, blue eyes crinkling in the way Jean loved so well, but she forced herself to look away from him, to speak to little Li, who seemed so shy and uncertain.

"You must be Li," she said, hoping that she sounded kind, that she would not give Lucien's daughter reason to fear her.

As she watched Li looked up at her father, and he gave her an encouraging nod. Li took a deep breath, looked straight at her, and then said, "hello, Mrs. Beazley," in a clear soft voice that brought tears to Jean's eyes at once. She did her best to blink them away, but she could not stop the swell of love, of joy, of fear in her chest. Finally, Lucien had brought his daughter home, and though she seemed a sweet girl, though she had with three words captured Jean's heart utterly, the road ahead for all of them was cast in shadow, and Jean was desperately worried about what must come next.

"Would you like a slice of cake?" Jean asked her.

Li looked at her, puzzled, and Jean realized then that of course the child probably spoke but little English, and the fact that Li had greeted her by name now seemed to her to be a most precious gift. Lucien quietly translated her question, and then Li was beaming at her so brightly that she could not help but laugh. Children were the same the world over, it seemed to Jean. There was no ailment a bit of cake couldn't cure.

"Yes, please," Li said sincerely.

* * *

Lucien had timed their arrival quite deliberately. The children were still at school, and Jean would not need to go and fetch them for another hour or so. This would allow him some time to talk to her, some time for Li to grow comfortable with her and with her home, before Jean's boisterous little ones came roaring in. The Beazley children were a rough and tumble bunch, prone to wrestling and playing in the dirt, noisy and rambunctious at the best of times, and though he loved them dearly, though his heart ached to see them again, he worried they would be too much for Li to handle.

And, selfishly, he wanted to see Jean first. She was so lovely, speaking kindly to Li, welcoming them into her home, and he fancied he could still feel the warmth of her lips against his cheek. Something had passed between them the night before he left, some promise that neither of them dared speak aloud, but it seemed that Jean's affection for him remained undiminished by his absence and the arrival of his child. His father's suggestion from the night before was ringing in his ears, and Jean was so  _beautiful,_ and warm, and kind, and every time he looked at her he felt himself grinning like a fool. Lucien could hardly recall having ever been so happy before.

Before they settled into their cake, however, Li had need of the loo, and so Lucien walked her back down the short corridor, and showed her where to go. The moment the door closed behind her he turned on his heel, and found Jean staring at him from other end of the corridor, the fingers of one hand pressed against her lips as if she were trying to hold back the very words that seemed to stick in the back of Lucien's throat. In a moment he was moving, and as he began to walk towards her Jean sprung into action. She met him halfway, with stupendous force.

Without even realizing it lifted her up, and her legs locked around him as neatly as they had done the last time he'd seen her, her lips crashing into his, tears staining both their cheeks. They only had a moment to themselves, just one fragile instant to share their hearts before they must both resume the mantles of parenthood and responsibility that weighed so heavily upon them, but Lucien was determined to make the most of it. He kissed her with everything he had, tasted her, drowned in her, and she gave as good as she got, clinging to him fiercely.

At last he parted from her, resting his forehead against her own, her arms wrapped tight around his neck.

"I love you," he whispered breathlessly. "I love you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: have no fear! The children will meet Li in the next chapter.


	31. Chapter 31

_4 October 1946_

"Mrs. Beazley is very nice," Li told him shyly as they sat together at the kitchen table. It was a fine sunny afternoon and Jean had taken the car to go and fetch the children from school, earning Lucien and Li a brief respite before the three young Beazleys came tearing through the house like a cyclone. This, too, was part of his plan, that he might give Li the chance to meet Jean, might watch her closely, and might then decide whether or not she was truly ready to meet the youngsters. Though Li had taken everything in stride and not uttered a single word of complaint Lucien knew that this must all be so overwhelming for her, and he worried about pushing her too hard, forcing her to do too much too quickly. He was certain that Li would grow comfortable here, that she would come to enjoy her new home, but he likewise knew that such adjustments could not be made overnight. She was still getting used to Lucien himself, and he worried that throwing in too many strange people speaking a strange language would distress her unnecessarily.

She had surprised him, his darling little girl; though Li sat very still and quiet while she ate her cake and sipped the glass of milk Jean had given her she answered every question asked of her in English as best she could, had smiled softly at Jean and even once readily confessed that she would like, very much, to go to school with the Beazley children one day soon. That, of course, had set Lucien's mind to spinning; her English wasn't strong enough yet for her to join the other children at school, and he found himself wondering what on earth he was going to do about it. He would like for her to be able to read at least before he sent her off to be taught by someone else. It seemed a daunting task, but one he was strangely looking forward to. He imagined long afternoons spent in the sunroom at his father's house, sitting with Li upon his lap and a pile of books for her to peruse.

"She is," Lucien agreed, smiling. Jean had been every inch the caring hostess, making great pains to include Li in their conversation, to ensure that she was comfortable, though there was something slightly wild in the corners of Jean's eyes that reminded Lucien forcefully of the welter of emotions that confused his own heart. He had not yet determined how best to merge the two halves of his life, how to secure for himself everything he wanted, everything he longed for. Jean's response to his return, the gentle way she treated his child, the way she had thrown her arms around him and clung to him so fiercely, filled him full of hope, but the road ahead remained cloaked in shadow. Just as he did not want to press Li too hard too soon, he likewise wanted to take his time with Jean, did not want to back her into a corner, did not want to make her feel as if he were only acting on impulse. He loved that woman, with everything he had, loved her children near as much as his own, and he needed her to understand that his hopes and dreams for them were no sudden flight of fancy, but the final bloom of the seeds they had sewn between them twelve years before.

"Do you think she likes me?" Li asked earnestly, her dark eyes shining as she looked up at her father.

Lucien loved his daughter in a way he had never before believed possible. She was his beating heart, the physical manifestation of his very soul, a piece of himself and of his dear departed wife he could reach out and cling to. He wanted nothing but joy and happiness for her, but there were moments, like this one, when he was reminded of just how much she had suffered, just how difficult, how uncertain her life had been, and he felt as if he were breaking in half beneath the weight of his grief and guilt. Li had been neglected, mistreated, taught to remain silent and still and always beholden to other people's demands, and there was nothing Lucien wanted more than to see her carefree and smiling. Perhaps she viewed their afternoon with Jean as something of a test, to prove her worth to her father or to the people he cared for, but Lucien needed to her know that she had not, could not have ever, disappointed him. He would burn the whole world down for her sake, and if anyone, even Jean, had spoken a disparaging word about her he would defend her most ardently. Of course, Jean had done nothing of the sort.

"Of course she likes you," he assured her at once. "Jean was very happy to meet you, and she's happy for you to meet her children. She adores you,  _x_ _iao gong zhu._ How could she not?"

Li did not seem to share his confidence, but before she could voice another question the sound of Jean's car winding up the gravel path echoed through the kitchen, and Lucien watched as his little girl straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin, brave and uncertain all at once. Li was nervous about meeting the children, he knew; from what little she'd told him of her time in the orphanage he'd gathered that the children had not been encouraged to be particularly friendly to one another, and Li was not accustomed to playing games and romping through the grass as the Beazley children were. She was worried they would not be able to understand one another, that the older Beazley children might be cruel to her - though Lucien had done his best to disabuse her of that notion - that they would find her strange and want no part of her. There was nothing he could say, he knew, that would set those fears to rest; the only way to prove to Li that Jean's children would enjoy her company was to introduce them, and see what happened. As he heard the car doors slam he sent up a silent prayer that he was doing the right thing, that all would be well.

In a moment the front door was opening, and there came the sound of little feet racing across the floorboards.

"Lucien!" Lily cried, her long blonde curls flowing out behind her as she ran across the room. He had no sooner gotten to his feet than the girl was in his arms, a surprised little  _umph_ escaping him on impact, though in truth his heart swelled as he picked Lily up and spun her in a circle, laughing. Her delight at seeing him again put to rest every fear he'd harbored, that the children would be cross with him for leaving, that in truth they did not care for him so deeply as he thought they did. A quick glance at his daughter had him putting Lily back on her feet in a moment, however, for Li looked confused, scared even. What must she think of such a display, he wondered, suddenly feeling a fool for having so indulged himself in his fondness for Lily when his own child stood beside him. Surely she didn't think he'd replaced her, that he cared more for Jean's children than for her?

The rest of the Beazleys had arrived; Christopher walked right up to him, and solemnly extended his little hand for Lucien to shake.

"Mr. Beazley," Lucien greeted him, grinning widely.

"I'm glad you're home, Doctor Blake," Christopher told him, and though the boy did not quite manage a smile, Lucien could still hear the relief in his voice.

Jack was hanging back, standing near his mother as she lifted her apron from its hook by the doorway, set on preparing their supper. There was a wary, uncertain look on Jack's face that mirrored Li's, and Lucien rushed to make introductions at once.

"Now," he said, turning to place his hands on Li's shoulders, "I'd like you to meet someone very special. This is my daughter, Li. Li, this is Lily, Christopher, and Jack," he explained, pointing to each child in turn.

"Hello," Li said softly. She did not duck her head or shy away, but her discomfort was plain. Lucien felt his heart sink in his chest; this was not going at all the way that he had hoped. Across the kitchen he sought out Jean's gaze, and found her watching the scene playing out before them with one hand pressed to her lips, all of his own hopes and fears mirrored in her eyes.

"Hello," Lily said, stepping forward. As the eldest and the leader of their merry band it stood to reason that Lily would be the one to press ahead. She was several years older and several inches taller than Li, and the differences in their appearances could not have been more striking, and Lucien could not help but worry if they would be put off by one another. For one moment Lily hesitated, and then held out her hand just as young Christopher had done to Lucien, looking far too grown up and far too doubtful for a girl so young. Li wavered for a moment, but then she reached out and shook Lily's hand, and for a single moment Lucien felt all the old doubts return to the surface.  _Is that girl your daughter?_ His father had asked him of Lily once, and he still did not know the answer to that question. There was much about Lily, her tempestuous nature, her earnest heart, her soft blue eyes, the tumble of her blonde curls, that gave him pause, that reminded him fiercely of himself. And yet Li who was his flesh and blood, his child beyond a doubt, bore no such resemblance to him. Was the timing of Lily's birth and the color of her hair no more than coincidence? And if it wasn't, if she was truly his, that would make her Li's sister. The girls had ended their little handshake quite quickly, but Lucien remained rooted in the moment, staring at them, searching their faces to determine whether they had any features in common, wondering if the ground had just shifted beneath their feet, wondering what it might be like, to call them both his daughters. Once more his eyes darted across the room, and to his utter shock, he saw tears standing in the corners of Jean's eyes, her gaze firmly fixed upon those two little girls. Was she asking herself the same questions? Had the time finally come for Lucien to gather his courage and ask her outright? If it was true, his opinion of Jean would not change in the slightest, for he could understand why she had made the choices that she did, in order to look after herself and her child. If it were not true, he would love Lily no less, but to question Jean's honor unjustly might well spell an end to the good rapport they had built between them. It seemed a terrible risk, and yet he feared the time was fast approaching when he would have to take it, for all their sakes.

While the girls eyed one another warily Jack had been slowly edging forward, a somewhat awestruck expression on his face. He was a few months younger than Li and they were of a height with one another, but likely Jack had never seen a little girl who looked quite like her. After all, there were not very many Chinese people in Ballarat, and certainly no children as far as Lucien knew. Of all the Beazleys Jack seemed the one most likely to make a fuss, to pout or bluster or react angrily to the presence of a stranger in the same way he had done when Lucien first arrived. It had taken months for Jack to warm up to Lucien, and so ever so subtly Lucien insinuated himself between Li and the youngest Beazley. Lucien had been able to manage Jack's disdain quite well, during that period when the boy had professed to hate him and refused to speak to him, but he did not want to Li to endure such treatment.

And yet when Jack spoke his voice was not accusatory or derisive, but rather meek and somewhat hopeful.

"Lucien?" Jack asked, looking up at Lucien with those wide blue eyes, his dark curls falling back from his face as he tilted his head back. "Can she come play footy with us? If she'll be on my team we can play two-a-side."

Lucien wasn't sure whether he was going to laugh or weep, or indeed which he was going to do first. The question was utterly sincere, Jack's tone guileless and faintly awed. With all the gentleness of a child Jack had looked upon this girl so different from himself and had not been scared, had not been derisive or judgmental; he did not care what the grown ups said about the Chinese, or the war, or where Li had come from, or what language she spoke, or any of it. All he saw was another child, so like himself, someone to play with, someone to even up the teams, and Lucien loved him for it. He was so grateful for that little boy he could have scooped him up and hugged him right then, but he resisted, knowing how important the children's first impressions of one another were.

Li had not understood the question, Lucien realized, catching sight of her face, and so he spoke to her at once in Mandarin.

"Would you like to go outside and play a game with them,  _x_ _iao gong zhu?_ I'm sure they can teach you the rules."

Lily drew back as he spoke, no doubt surprised by the sound of his voice speaking a language she did not know, but Li had eyes only for her father. "But what if I'm not any good?"

"I'm not any good, and I play with them all the time," Lucien reassured her. Though he hated to see her so concerned, so hesitant to engage with the other children, he tried to be gentle with her, tried not to push her too hard. If she truly did not want to play he would not force her, but he worried about how the Beazley children might react to being spurned so soon after meeting her.

Li considered it for a moment, and then her face fell. "This is dress is too fine,  _Papa,_ " she said sadly, brushing her hand across her pale blue dress, a somewhat defeated look on her face. "I can't play outside. What if it gets dirty?"

Lucien was beginning to suspect that the list of things the children in the orphanage had been punished for was endless, and his heart ached, not just for Li, but for every child who had been held there.

"If it gets dirty, we can wash it, love. Really, it's not a problem."

The longer their conversation continued, the more alarmed the Beazley children became, unaccustomed as they were to hearing any language that was not English spoken around them. To her credit, however, Jean had watched the little exchange, and she must have discerned at least some of its meaning from Li's demeanor. She stepped forward at once, placing her hands on Jack's shoulders.

"I'm sure we have some clothes here that will fit her, if she'd be more comfortable wearing something else."

And so it was that Li went trooping into the back garden wearing a pair of Jack's trousers and one of Lily's old blouses. Lucien sprawled himself upon the grass to watch the game, and after some cajoling, Jean sank down gracefully beside him, tucking her legs to the side and leaning towards him as they smiled fondly at their children. With a little fumbling and a great deal of pointing the game began; the Beazley children had agreed amongst themselves that while Jack wanted Li on his team it would be more fair if she played with Lily, who was the best of them all, and so they started, boys-against-girls, flying across the grass.

At first Li was very serious about the whole affair, catching her bottom lip between her teeth as she ran, her shoulders slumping each time an attempted kick did not go quite the way she'd planned, but the infectious jubilance of the raucous Beazleys won her over. They shouted, they rolled about on the grass, they ran into one another with childlike exuberance, and for the very first time since he'd found her in that orphanage Lucien heard his daughter laugh. He could not help the sudden surge of tears that overcame him.

Before he could wipe the tears away, however, Jean reached out and caught his hand, lacing their fingers together and giving him a little squeeze. He stared at her, this beautiful woman who had opened her heart and her home to him, who had so kindly made room for his daughter here, who represented to him everything that was good and lovely in the world. Her smile was soft and warm, and he could not help but return it, brushing his thumb across her knuckles while a chorus of shouts - three voices crying in English, and one very small one answering in Mandarin - echoed behind them. The sky was blue, the sun was warm, the grass was lush and green, and there was nowhere else in the world Lucien wanted to be and no one else he would rather spend his time with.

"I love you," he told her softly. The words had come to him impulsively, had spilled out of him for his heart was so full with love and joy and radiant hope that he could hardly contain it a moment longer. He felt so much it seemed his body could not contain it, all his delight and all his reckless dreams. For a moment he feared that he had overstepped, that he should not have told her again so soon, that he should have more respect for the unsettled state of things between them, but Jean dispelled his doubts in an instant, holding his hand that much tighter.

"I'm so glad you're home, Lucien," she whispered. "Both of you."


	32. Chapter 32

_4 October 1946_

"They're asleep," came a soft voice from just over her shoulder.

Jean's eyes fluttered open, and she lifted her chin to find Lucien smiling down upon her with a two glasses of sherry in hand. That smile;  _oh,_ but she had missed his smile, the warmth of his blue eyes, the strength of his broad hands, every day he'd been away. She took the glass he offered her, and tried to still the sudden clamouring of her heart as he sat down beside her on the sofa, his left arm snaking out to wrap around her shoulders at once. It was almost too much, the casual familiarity of his touch, the fact that he had just come from reading bedtime stories to her children at their behest, the fact that his daughter slept with her head pillowed upon Jean's lap. She had spent a month languid and mournful in the doldrums of waiting, and now life had come for her, bearing her aloft upon a stormy sea she could not hope to navigate. Where would they go from here? What would become of them? What did Lucien expect? She did not know, and the questions themselves left her distressed and out of sorts.

She held her sherry glass in her right hand, lessening the temptation to reach out and press the pads of her fingers against the strong line of his thigh, and with her left she smoothed her hands over Li's shiny dark hair, marveling at the fineness of it, so different from Lily's wild blonde curls. Of the two of them, Lily took more after their father than did Li. How strange it was, to hold this sweet girl in her arms, to know that she was Lily's sister, and yet it was only Li who could call Lucien  _Papa_ openly and without consequence. Which was not to say that Jean bore the girl any ill will; though they had only been acquainted a very short while Jean found Li to be a lovely child, a bright, curious girl so like her father, though hardship had left her rather quieter and more restrained than Lucien himself. Li was Lucien's girl, through and through, and Jean would have adored her for that reason alone, but her gentle spirit endeared her all the more to Jean.

It was not Li's fault that Jean's heart was aching and confused. The reasons for her doubts and her hesitation were many. It was less than a year since Jean had learned of Christopher's passing, less than a year since Lucien had appeared on her doorstep, but already Jean felt herself cursed, felt she could not carry on without him by her side. No matter how she told herself that she had done her mourning for Christopher already, every day of the four years that had passed with neither letter nor sign from him, the truth remained that she was only recently a widow, and she could not help but think that surely she must be a wicked creature, to have already forgotten the man who had wed her, who had given her a home, who had given her two sons, who had loved her daughter as his own and never questioned where she'd come from. And to make matters worse, she had not remained content to pine in silence for Lucien, but had fought for him, had flung her arms around his neck and let him lay her down upon his bed in the barn reckless as teenagers and twice as thoughtless, for they should both of them have known better. He had sworn his love to her and she had embraced that love with open arms, that love she had cherished, coveted in her heart since she was eighteen years old. All she had ever wanted, truly, was Lucien's love, but now that he had given it to her she could not help but wonder if perhaps she was undeserving of such a blessing. Jean had sinned, in her youth, had ignored the laws of the church and the commandments of her father and she had been struck down for it, had been doomed to stew in shame, never speaking the truth of Lily's parentage, watching Christopher love her so fiercely while still her heart pined for another, knowing that he had died for the sake of the love he bore her, the love she could never return to him. Surely, her penitence was not at an end, just because Christopher had died. Surely, his blood upon her hands would only extend her punishment. Surely, whatever Lucien was offering, she could not take it.

"You're awfully quiet this evening, Jean," Lucien said. His arms remained fast around her shoulders, his hand cupping her gently, fingers curling against her blouse, and though her heart cried out that it was folly she sighed and leaned against him, turning her head just enoguh to catch a waft of the remnants of his cologne, warm and heady and offering her a comfort she did not deserve.

"What happens next, Lucien?" she asked him softly.

The sitting room was dim, no fire burning in the grate as it had been a warm day. They kept their voices low, so as not to wake Li, who slept on, ignorant as to the troubles of the adults around her.

"My father has offered me his practice," Lucien confessed, and Jean felt the pounding of her heart only increased at the thought. He would leave her, then, would stay in her house no longer, would join the world of wealth and privilege that was his birthright, and forget all about the farmgirl who had nearly been his ruin. It was just as well. Lucien had no particular talent for agriculture and much as he professed himself to be quite content in her home she knew he longed for the comforts of his father's house, the excellent scotch, the fine leather armchairs, the desultory conversations, the holidays abroad. Lucien's father was one of the most esteemed men in town, his mother a famed Parisian beauty the locals still praised in awed whispers; not for him, a life of dirt and struggle. Not for him a widow with three children to look after, with callouses upon her hands and her home-stitched dresses.

And selfishly, she was not sure how she would manage, without Lucien's earnest help in the fields. That was the original reason for their cohabitation, after all, not just the clamoring lust of their hearts but the pragmatic demands of the bank. Jean would have to find someone else, someone young and strong and desperate enough to take what meager pay she could offer. Her next farmhand would have to be a true employee, not a handsome man who sat at her table and played games with her children and slept in her barn, but one who retired to his own lodgings every evening and called her  _Mrs. Beazley_ and did not look at her with blue eyes so full of hunger that her knees went weak at the sight of them. The war was done and one harvest already under their belts, and she was hopeful there would be such a lad out there, a young man unattached as yet who could accept her rather low rate of pay, for a season at least. A migrant, perhaps, or just some down on his luck bodgie.

"Congratulations, Lucien," she murmured, though her voice was strained, even to her own ears. "You deserve this. You'll make a fine doctor."

He chuckled, softly, and she felt the sound of it rumble against her cheek where she was still pressed tight against him.

"I was a fine doctor, once," he said.  _How very Lucien,_ she thought,  _that he can make even arrogance an appealing trait._

"I'm not sure I'm ready, to be honest. I think I may put him off for a while. I'll work as police surgeon for a few months first. I find living patients too distressing at present."

It was a dark confession, but even so, Jean was grateful for it, for his honesty in this as in all things. They had not discussed it much, his time in the camp, but Jean knew that he had tended to the sick and wounded there, that he had seen things that haunted him in the still of the night, that he cursed himself for the loss of every man who'd died under his care, despite the fact that the lack of resources and facilities were not his doing, nor within his power to improve. His hands still shook at the sight of blood, she knew, and so she understood his reticence. It was not her place to cajole him into doing his father's bidding, however, and so she bit her tongue.

"I don't want to leave you," he said, and though she felt the prick of tears in the corners of her eyes she lifted her chin and straightened her shoulders slightly, determined to remain firm and steadfast, for the sake of her own fragile heart. "There's not room enough here for me and Li both, and I won't bring you another mouth to feed. You have enough to be worrying about without cleaning up my messes as well."

"You don't belong here any way, Lucien," she told him. Beneath her she felt him stiffen, and knew immediately that he had taken her words in the worst possible way. For a moment she was silent, pondering her options. She could spare her own heart and be hard to him now, send him away as if it were her own choice, let him go for good and all, or she could tell him the truth, how she had always known that he must someday leave her, though it grieved her, how she wanted nothing more than to cling him despite the inequity of their circumstances. In the end she chose to split the difference, and chart a safer course.

"I only meant, you have a great potential to help people," she explained in that same quiet voice. "You could be doing so much more than this. And you have a responsibility to make a good life for Li."

"I do," he agreed reluctantly. "But what about what I want, Jean? Should my own desires not factor in to the equation?"

"What do you want, Lucien?" she whispered before she could stop herself. It was cruel, she knew, to ask him such a thing, unkind to them both to raise the specter of their feelings for one another in this moment when they must surely part. That night in the barn Jean had believed, however briefly, that when Lucien came back to her things would be much the same, that they would spend as much time together as they could, that their children would be happy together, that they could foster their love and perhaps forge a new life together. And in fact, she had continued to believe it, when he returned and took her into his arms and whispered his love of her against her skin, but now she felt the heavy weight of their circumstances bearing down upon her once more. Thomas Blake had changed his tune, where she was concerned, had been kind to her and spoken to her warmly, but she knew that their neighbors would not share in his gentleness. There had been talk enough about the pair of them already, and she knew that to push for anything more would only bring calamity upon her doorstep. What would people say about her, if she rushed so quickly into his arms? Would they not feel their whispers justified, and redouble their efforts? Who would send their wives or children to a doctor who had dallied with a young widow for months in full sight of all and sundry? How might her children suffer? And  _oh, God,_ what would people say if they saw Lily and Lucien together more often? The thought of all those troubles sat heavy as a stone upon her heart.

"I should have thought that was obvious," he whispered hoarsely. "I love you, Jean. And I love the children. And Li adores you already. Could we not-"

"This is my home, Lucien," she cut him off sharply. This farm, this house, this dream that Christopher had built with his own sweat and blood, this was where she belonged. Her husband had been a good man, a kind man, a man who only ever wanted her and their family, and now that he was gone Jean could not bear the thought of abandoning his life's work for the sake of her own selfish wants. And besides, this was her children's  _home;_ what would become of them, should they move to town, should they find themselves so suddenly thrust into a life they had never before imagined? Jean's children were ill-prepared for the trials of high society, as was Jean herself.

"I know, Jean. I know," he said heavily.

For a time they were silent, lost in their own thoughts, but then Lucien finished his sherry, pressed a gentle kiss to the top of her head, and rose ponderously to his feet.

"I don't want to leave you without help, with summer coming on," he said, carefully gathering Li up into his arms. "If you'll have me, I'd like to come and help you, when you need it. And I think, with your blessing, it would be good for the children to spend a bit more time together."

Jean remained where she was, suddenly bereft without the warmth of Lucien beneath her, without the weight of Li's head upon her lap. He towered above her, but there was no anger in him, no aggression; the expression on his face was all but unreadable in the darkness, but there was a determination in him that set her hands to trembling.

"I love you, Jean," he said again. "I would never presume to make you live a life that was not of your choosing."

There was a war raging in her heart as she looked up at him. It seemed some days that she had loved this man all her life, but she had never really dreamed, before this moment, that anything would come of that love. Now he stood before her, offering her everything she had ever wanted, and yet she could not find the courage to reach out and take it. She knew she had to speak, had to say something, to spurn him or reassure him, knew that whatever words left her next would decide the course of her very life, but she found herself utterly lost. He was so handsome, so warm, so kind, so understanding, but he had always had a rather rosy view of the world, had always been so accustomed to getting his own way, whereas Jean was rather better acquainted with loss and disappointment. Could it really be so easy, she asked herself now, to set aside her worries and simply take what was on offer? Could they really hope to make such a life together? And was that indeed what he was offering, with his declarations of love?

"I just need time, Lucien," she said at last.

This seemed to mollify him, for he nodded once in understanding.

"Of course," he answered. "And you shall have it, as much as you need."

And then he left her, carrying his child out into the night and all of Jean's hopes along with him.


	33. Chapter 33

_15 October 1946_

It was a fine Tuesday afternoon, and Lucien was sitting with Li on the little sofa in the sunroom. It had been his intention, since installing himself and his daughter in his father's house, to begin teaching her how to read in English. She was a bright little thing, and he was hopeful that if they worked hard together she would be ready to start school with the other children when the new term began in January. He had even arranged a meeting with the principal of the school for that very week, with the intention of explaining the situation and determining the best way forward for Li. She wanted, very much, to spend time with other children, and Lucien wanted that for her, a life that was as calm and normal as possible, given the chaos of her early years.

To that end he had spread paper and pencil on the little table, and was sipping a cup of tea while Li diligently traced the letters of the alphabet, muttering their names to herself under her breath, with some encouragement from her delighted father. She had taken to the work with a zeal that had alarmed him at first; while he did want to assist in her education he did not for a moment want her to think that he was like the adults she'd known at the orphanage, harsh and exacting and impossible to please. His love and devotion to her had nothing whatsoever to do with her academic success, and he did his very best to make this plain to her, playing little games and often calling a halt to her studies just so he could take her out into the garden and see her sweet smile. It was Li who indulged her father in those frivolous pursuits, and Li who brought them back to task, for having discovered that reading would be a requirement for her attendance at school she was determined to master it as soon as she was able, her mind firmly fixed upon her goal. Lucien was certain that she had inherited that steely dedication from her mother, for in truth he had not been a particularly devoted student, and had often gotten by while doing the least amount of work necessary.

"Papa," she said, turning her attention to her father as she finished her lines. "Can you teach me how to write my name?"

For the most part they still conversed in Mandarin, but during these lessons Lucien did his best to stick to English, wanting her to become more comfortable with the sound of the language. It all seemed to go hand in hand, reading and writing and speaking, and while Lucien had always been rather deft at picking up new languages he had never before even attempted to pass those skills on to another. He wasn't entirely sure he was the most qualified person to help Li with it now, but he had balked at his father's suggestion of hiring a tutor. It wasn't the expense that concerned him - for Thomas had offered to pay for it himself - but rather thought of someone else taking over what he felt was his duty as her father. He wanted to spend as much time as he possibly could with her, while so much of their lives and their futures remained uncertain.

"Of course," he said, smiling at her. Li was wearing her favorite blue dress, her hair still falling in that same single braid down her back. While Lucien taught her letters Li had taught him how to arrange her hair, had begun slowly inducting him into a world of girlhood he had never before experienced as she guided him through the process of filling out her wardrobe. The shopkeeper, Mrs. Miller, had been delighted by Li -  _such a polite little dear!_ she'd said - and had been most keen to help them find all the things that they needed, but she'd been meddlesome, as well. Mrs. Miller had explained that she did not carry a great variety of children's clothing, but had whispered to Lucien in a conspiratorial voice,  _you know Mrs. Beazely is quite the seamstress, perhaps she could assist you._ Lucien had not missed the smug look upon her face, or the implications of the suggestion; everyone in town had heard by now of the way Lucien had spent the months before he'd brought Li home, and they all seemed to have an opinion about it. Mrs. Miller might have approved, in her own way, but Lucien had not been looking for any sort of input as regarded his personal life, and he had chosen to completely ignore her.

"Perhaps you could work it out," he suggested, leaning over so that his face was very close to Li's, while she stared down at her paper with her pencil in hand. At his words she turned to look at him, and he was struck once more by just how very much she resembled her mother. A wave of melancholy swirled over him then, but it was not so very sharp or so very bitter as it had been, in the beginning. He missed Mei Lin, of course he did, wished that she could have been there to see the bright, brilliant child their baby girl had grown into, but he had become somewhat resigned to her loss. Mei Lin would have been so very proud of Li, and as he looked at his daughter now he wondered if he ought to speak of her more, what he should tell his daughter of the mother she could only barely remember. Mei Lin had been strong and brave, but she could be haughty and judgemental. She was clever and often made him laugh, encouraged him when his own resolve was flagging, but she did not respond well to disappointment or deprivation. Such was the nature of humanity, he supposed, that everyone could be such a mix of faults and glories, but he was unsure of how exactly to explain that to Li. Her mother had not been a saint, but she had been a good woman, a woman Lucien remembered fondly. Perhaps that would be enough for Li to know.

"Say your name," he instructed, seeing that she appeared confused as to how to go about the process.

" _Li,"_ she said, as slowly as it was possible to express such a brief sound, and thus they began. With Lucien's help she worked her way through it, though he stumbled a bit in explaining why it would be best to use an  _I,_ rather than an  _E_ ; this whole business, he was discovering, was rather more complicated than he'd ever realized. There were a thousand tiny rules and conventions he'd never even recognized before, and explaining them to his eight year old daughter was proving to be a challenge.

Li was experimenting with tracing her name across the page, making the letters big and beautiful, growing more confident with each stroke of her pencil, when Lucien's father appeared in the doorway.

It was rather strange, living under Thomas's roof once more, taking meals with him, sitting with him in the evenings and sharing a glass of scotch. Eight months of Saturdays spent in one another's company had done wonders to ease the tension between them, but still, Lucien could not seem to relax entirely. It felt rather as if he were waiting for something, though for what, he could not say. Perhaps he was waiting for Jean; he had only seen her on a bare handful of occasions over the last two weeks, and though she had been, as ever, quite warm to him there was a guardedness about her that left him terribly uneasy. With each passing day he felt a rift opening up between them, with no notion how to stop it. She had asked for time, and he had agreed to give it to her, but the more time that passed, the more he felt as if this opportunity were slipping through his fingers. He  _wanted_  her, her gentle laugh, the warmth of her hands, the softness of her skin, wanted her in his bed, in his home, in his life, always. He wanted to see the children every day, wanted to watch all four of them playing together, wanted to stand beside Jean at the sink and dry the dishes as she washed them and then retire to the sitting room together. He wanted her to be his wife, and during the long weeks he'd spent in China, remembering their furious embrace in the barn, he had rather thought that was what she wanted, too. Now, however, he could not be so sure.

"Lucien," his father said his name in a strange tone of voice that immediately set Lucien on edge, wondering what sort of game was afoot.

"Yes?"

"Mrs. Clasby is here," Thomas explained, leaning heavily on his cane. "She has an appointment about her blood pressure. I'm afraid I'm not feeling my best. Do you think you could look after her?"

Lucien fought the urge to groan. Nell Clasby was a dear, a woman Lucien fondly recalled from his childhood, but he was certain that his father's request was not as innocent as it seemed. Thomas had not been complaining, at breakfast or at lunch, about feeling under the weather, but he had of late been doing his very best to cajole Lucien back into medicine. Lucien had rung Doug Ashby and taken over as police surgeon, but that position was not particularly demanding at present, and Thomas wanted more for his son. Lucien had never responded well to his father's demands, and though he had half a mind to refuse him now Lucien knew there was no graceful way to back down. He was living in his father's house, and Mrs. Clasby was waiting, and besides, Li was watching. For her sake he would be cordial, would do his best to a good example for his child if nothing else.

"Of course," he ground out. "Will you take over for me here?"

They traded places, Thomas settling himself down upon the sofa while Lucien made his way out of the sunroom, pausing for a moment to watch his father and his daughter together. Thomas delighted in little Li, and for her part she seemed to adore him, though they did not always understand one another.

"Granddad, look," she said, pointing excitedly to the paper, "I can write my name!"

"That's brilliant, darling," Thomas said warmly. Lucien smiled at the gentle little scene, shaking his head ruefully at how neatly his father had played him, and went to see to Mrs. Clasby.

While he had been speaking with his father Nell had settled herself in one of the chairs across from the desk in the surgery, but she rose when Lucien entered the room.

"Lucien," she said, and for a moment he forgot to be cross with his father. Nell really was a sweet woman, and there were worse ways to pass the time.

"Mrs. Clasby, how are you?" he answered, settling himself behind his father's desk and hoping that none of his nervousness showed. Lucien had not tended to a living patient in over a year, with the exception of the day he'd carried Jean into the house after she'd collapsed in the garden and the splinter he'd extracted from Lily's finger, and he was not at all assured of his own capabilities. But, he reminded himself, Nell had come for a fairly routine complaint, one that had troubled her all her life; she was not in need of surgery, would not be bleeding all over his new trousers.  _You can do this,_ he told himself.  _You've lived through much worse than Nell Clasby._

"Quite well," she said, smiling. "But how are you, Lucien? It's been such a long time since I saw you last."

"Oh, I'm fit as a fiddle," he said dismissively, but Nell would not let the subject drop. He had forgotten what it was like, life in this quiet place; there was no getting straight to business, no rush, no demand. Judging by the look on her face Mrs. Clasby wanted to chat just as much as she wanted her ailment seen to, and he would have to endure her questioning whether he wanted to or not.

"I heard you've brought your daughter home," she said, and though he might have bristled, should anyone else bring Li up in this setting, with Nell he could not help but smile. She was not passing judgment or ferreting for gossip, but instead seemed genuinely pleased for him, and he wondered for a moment how he had survived so long without the support of kind people all around him.

"I have," he said, unable to mask his pride. "She's in the sunroom with my father, just now."

"That's wonderful," Nell told him, leaning across the desk to cover his hand with her own for a moment. "Your mother would have been so happy."

There was nothing Lucien could say to that, and no way for him to form the words, when just the thought of his mother brought a lump to his throat. Yes, he thought, his mother would have been delighted to meet her granddaughter, to have Lucien back home at last, to know that he and his father were no longer quarreling, and it grieved him, just a little, to think how much she had missed, how very much he still missed her, even after all this time.

"Your father told me you're taking over his practice," she continued.

"I'm only considering it, Nell." It wouldn't do, for that rumor to spread. In a place like Ballarat, once people started to believe a thing, it suddenly became truth, regardless of how it started, and Lucien would not allow himself to be backed into a corner that way.

"What does Jean think about it?"

The knowing look she gave him left Lucien utterly at a loss. There was no way for him to respond to such a question; for starters, he had no idea what Jean thought of his taking over the practice, but to make matters worse, he knew that any answer he might give would lend credence to the gossip that he and Jean were rather more than friends. That gossip was intolerable to Jean, he knew, had made things quite difficult for her in town and at church, and he did not want to add to her burdens.

"What's this about your blood pressure, Nell?" he asked, firmly putting an end to that line of questioning. The look on Nell's face was almost pitying, as if she had with one glance determined the turmoil of his heart, and sympathized with him for it. Sympathy would do him no good, however, for the only person who could put his fears to rest and help him find his way was Jean, and she was far from his side at present. Lucien did his best, to listen to Nell and formulate a treatment for her, to be kindly and professional, but his thoughts were awash with the troubles of his heart. He could not continue on in this fashion, distant from Jean and unsure of her intentions, wanting so much and yet denying himself all. A change would have to come, and he was quickly coming to the conclusion that he would have to be the one to make it. There were so many questions running through his mind, and he was resolved that soon he would have his answers.


	34. Chapter 34

_26 October 1946_

Jean sat for a moment staring up at that fine house, thinking of the people who lived there, thinking of how her heart ached, without Lucien by her side, thinking how she had passed the last three weeks in a weary state of lonely uncertainty. He had come to her, three or four times, on warm sunny afternoons with Li in tow, had sipped her tea and watched their children playing together with agony in his expression, and she had let him, not wanting to send him away, not knowing how to draw him closer. Her early suspicions - that once he was established in his father's house his life would chart a course far different from her own - had proved true, for he had been much too busy seeing to patients and assisting the police to make good on his promise to help around the farm. It was a grievance she had anticipated, and so she had hired on a young man who kept his gaze downcast when he spoke to her and always called her  _Mrs. Beazley_  and left each evening to go to his home, rather than lingering in hers.

 _But what about what I want, Jean?_ He had asked her that night in the sitting room with her head pillowed on his shoulder.  _Could we not -_ that was as close as he had come to giving voice to his desires, to telling her outright what it was he wanted from her, and it was not enough. There had been no commitment made, no plans laid, no strategy assembled. There was only her suspicions, her assumptions, her doubts, their children and his career and the gossip of the town. There was only the threadbare sofa beneath them and the sag of the roof where it leaked in the rain and the distant lowing of an udder-heavy cow, the reality of her life stark and hopeless, and his so full of potential. She could infer all manner of meaning in the question he had nearly asked, but she did not  _know_ , and with each passing day she became more convinced that whatever he had wanted of her then, sitting on the sofa with his arms around her in the darkness, his desires must surely have changed as he settled more firmly into his life of comfortable wealth and privilege.

It seemed he was settling in quite well, now; he wore finely tailored suits in place of the secondhand shirts and fraying trousers he had favored on the farm, his beard was neatly shaped and his hair trimmed and tamed, so that now he presented a polished look far more befitting a doctor than his wild curls had done. She had to admit, he looked quite handsome with his waistcoat and his jacket, almost always dressed in blue, a color that suited him quite well, but she missed the shine of sweat upon his golden skin, the ripple of his muscles beneath a thin shirt, the softness of his hair between her fingertips. She missed the truth of him, before it had been so neatly pressed and tucked into this mold of propriety. Before he'd left for China Lucien had once more become her wild boy, the true reckless nature of his heart and his passions saved for her and her alone just as it had been when they were young and unfettered by duty, and she had loved him for that wildness, for that spirit that could not be tamed. Now, however, there was no sign of her Lucien, just  _Doctor Blake,_ dignified and quiet and somewhat stern, except when he turned to smile at his daughter.

Perhaps if it would be for the best if Jean let him go. Perhaps she would have treasured her memories in her heart and allowed him to slip through her fingers, to claim the prestige and the dignity that was his birthright and forget all about the farmgirl who had almost been his ruin. As it was, however, Jean was not alone in missing him, and when she piled the children into the car to make her usual Saturday jaunt into town they had all of them been adamant that they wanted to see Lucien. It would not do, Jean had told them, to simply drop in on the doctor unannounced, but Lily's lower lip had begun to tremble and Jean had been forced to admit that she missed him just as badly as did the children, and so a compromise was struck.

With the windows rolled down she left the children in the car, and made her way to the front door, taking in a deep breath before rapping smartly on the door three times. They had spent so much time in this place, over the course of Lucien's tenure in her home, had grown so comfortable here. Old Doctor Blake had welcomed her and her children with open arms, had been so very kind, and she had not realized until she was standing upon the step just how much she had been pining for the warm afternoons they'd spent together in this place.

The door was swinging open in a moment, and Jean felt her heart seize in her chest for an instant as she gazed at Lucien. His expression swung wildly from polite reserve to desperate hope as he caught sight of her, and the eagerness in his eyes was matched only by her own devastation. How could it be, she asked herself, that a single glance from him could turn her bones to water, could make her want to throw aside her convictions and her resolve and leap into his arms, could shatter all her firmly held notions about what was best for them? How could it be that he was so bloody handsome, still, after all this time, the only man in the world who could make her utterly weak?

"Jean!" he exclaimed in a tone of delighted surprise, and though she was full of doubts and grief she could not help but smile at him, for he seemed so sincerely pleased to see her that it bolstered her flagging heart.

"Good morning, Doctor Blake," she answered, but she regretted her words at once for his face fell at the sound of his proper title falling from her lips, rather than his given name. She had not intended to spurn him, and she was cursing herself for having already derailed their interaction so spectacularly. Though part of her wanted to flee from the sudden tension that bound them she had come to this place on a mission, and she was determined to see it through.

"The children have been asking to see you," she rushed on, hiding her own fervent desire to spend time in his company behind her children's clamorings and yet hoping that Lucien could look upon her now and see that it was not only the children who missed him. "Perhaps you and Li might like to come round for lunch tomorrow, after church?"

His answering smile was soft, and if some sadness lingered in the corners of his eyes his voice was firm and even when he answered. "That would be lovely, Mrs. Beazley," he said. "Thank you."

He had not called her  _Mrs. Beazley_ in such a serious tone of voice for quite some time, and for a moment she simply stared at him, confused and aghast. So much had changed, over the last three weeks. The certainty that had calmed her when he left had been replaced by crippling doubts. Silence and misunderstandings had drawn them apart from one another, as life raced onward and their own desires were buried beneath responsibility. She wanted, very much, to reclaim the closeness they had shared, before, to reclaim his soft lips and his warm hands, to find some confidence in what they were to one another, in where they would go from here. She was not blessed with such certainty, however, and three pairs of eyes watching her from the backseat of her old car counseled her to prudence despite her desire to fold herself into his arms and beg him to make everything all right again, to just tell her outright what he planned for them. Perhaps if they only had a little time alone they might be able to work through things together, but the busy work of life and the demands of their children kept them firmly apart, and she was left alone and adrift.

"Right," she said somewhat lamely, and then she was forcing herself to step back, to leave him, for another day at least. "I'll see you tomorrow, Lucien."

She turned away quickly, and did not see the warm smile that flitted across his face at the sound of his name falling from her lips.

* * *

_27 October 1946_

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Beazley," Li said in a clear little voice as Jean opened the door. Li really was a darling child, and with every day her English grew stronger, her confidence growing as she settled into life in this new world. On impulse Jean reached down and caught the little girl in a quick embrace, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

"Good afternoon, Li," she said. "Come on, lunch is nearly ready."

Jean stepped aside and Li raced past her, following the sounds of voices to where Jean's own children were already seated at the kitchen table, eagerly awaiting their food and their guests. For a moment Jean and Lucien lingered together by the door, awkward and hopeful in equal measure. He was looking at her with blue eyes big and hopeful as a puppy, leaving it to her to determine the tone of their interaction, and though her doubts remained she was determined that today they would be more open with one another, that they might begin to forge a new path. And so Jean summoned her courage, placed a gentle hand upon his shoulder and lifted herself up on her toes to press a kiss against his cheek.

"Come inside, Lucien," she breathed as she stepped away from him. "Come and have something to eat."

She closed the door behind him and led the way to the kitchen, and as she walked she fancied she could almost feel the radiant warmth of his smile upon her back.

 _I would never presume to make you live a life that was not of your choosing,_ he'd told her that night weeks before, had firmly placed the responsibility for moving them forward upon her shoulders. It was not in Jean's nature to make demands of people, to speak openly and earnestly of her heart, and she balked at the idea of throwing herself at Lucien's feet, offering herself and her children and her whole life up as a sacrifice to him, but she knew that without some sign from her Lucien would allow them to remain locked in stasis out of some misguided concern for her sensibilities. There were too many variables, too many obstacles; she loved the farm, felt a duty to Christopher to keep it up, but she  _wanted_ Lucien, wanted their children to play together, wanted his arms around her while she slept. Jean was at war with herself, her fierce sense of independence and her shame over the circumstances of Lily's birth and Christopher's death vying with the desperate love she had harbored in her heart for twelve long years, and she did not know yet which side of her might win. For now, for this afternoon, she would be content to be with Lucien, to be warm and open with him as she had been before he left for China, to see where the day might take them. It would not do to miss the beauty of the moment for worrying about the future.

"Lucien!" Lily crowed delightedly as they entered the room, slipping out of her chair to hurl herself into his arms. Lucien caught her, laughing, and for a moment Jean's heart ached in her chest, to see them so happy and free with one another. She still had not told Lucien the truth about Lily, though she knew that day was most surely coming. Any life that they might choose to build together must surely be built upon truth, and she could not embark upon such an endeavor without first unburdening herself to him. Even if they resolved themselves to keeping a polite distance for the rest of their lives the thought of keeping this secret from him galled her. In the beginning she had been quite determined that he should never know, but her heart had changed over the course of their acquaintance, as she saw how fiercely he loved little Li, how much it had grieved him to be separated from her, how gently he treated Lily. Jean could not be the one responsible for keeping another of his children from him, no matter how messy, how complicated that truth might make their lives. Yes, she must tell him, and soon, but not now, not with all the children gathered together and a meal upon the table.

"Right, you lot," she said, clapping her hands together. "Time to eat."

* * *

After their meal the children retreated outside, the way they often did, to romp through the grass in a glorious clamor of youthful exuberance. Lily and Jack had each taken hold of Lucien's hands and dragged him out with them, and though he had stared at Jean with a hopeless sort of yearning on his face he had allowed them to lead him away to join in their games. Jean just smiled, watching through the little window above the sink while they played and she washed the dishes and hummed softly to herself, thinking how easy it was for all of them to be together in this place, far from prying eyes and the demands of their society. The whispers had diminished, at church and in the shops, now that Lucien was firmly installed in his father's house and no one spied the pair of them together in the streets any more, and here on the farm it was as if they had entered another world, a calm, quiet place they had constructed for themselves. How could they even think to abandon such sanctuary for the demands of life in town and the constant scrutiny of their neighbors? For all its struggles there was a certain freedom to life on the farm, and Jean had come to love it, though she had cursed her lot in the beginning, had wept to think that all her dreams and plans for her future had been reduced to this plot of earth and the endless toil of providing for her family. The farm was no place for a man like Lucien, however, and so she remained at an impasse, finding it nearly impossible to choose which she loved more, him or her freedom.

There came a great ruckus from outside, and as Jean watched Lily and Li tackled Lucien together, laughing as they dragged their father down into the dirt, and the breath caught in her lungs as she watched the pair of them together, sisters by blood though they did not know it yet. Even if she were to tell Lucien the truth that very day she still had no notion of when or even if she might confess it to the children; Lily had loved Christopher so dearly, and Jean could not bear the thought of tainting those memories with the stain of her own sins. She ached to think how lonesome the boys might feel, to discover the connection that existed between Lucien and Lily, the bond that excluded them from that corner of their family. Jean loved all of her children fiercely, and she did not want her boys to suffer for the sake of their sister. It seemed an impossible line to tread, between protecting the boys and being honest with Lily.

The back door clattered as Lucien came waltzing in, mopping the sweat from his brow and grinning at her, his suit wrinkled and covered in grass and dirt.

"I'm afraid my girls have made quite a mess of me," he said apologetically as Jean turned to him with an eyebrow raised.

 _My girls,_ he'd said, and she almost choked to him refer to them that way, completely innocent of the truth of the implication inherent in that phrase. They  _were_  his girls, both of them, and the words lay heavy on her tongue, threatening to spill out at any moment. Rather than speak and risk giving voice to that troubling truth she simply abandoned the dishes and made her way to him, helping him to brush the detritus from his clothing as he stood still and submissive to her attentions.

"It's wonderful to see them playing together," he told her softly. "I'm glad they all get on so well."

On its face it was not a particularly dramatic statement, but there was an undercurrent of wheedling to his tone that told Jean all too plainly what he'd meant.  _They enjoy being together, don't you see how happy they would be, if only we joined our families?_

"So am I," Jean answered. They had finished their work of cleaning him off but her hand lingered on his back, feeling the warmth of him through his clothes, hungry for the closeness they had been denied these last few weeks. For the moment they were properly alone, as Jean had so longed for them to be, but now that the opportunity for frank discussion had presented itself she felt all the questions she longed to ask him withering in her chest. How could they even begin such a conversation?

"You look beautiful today, Jean," he said suddenly, and the way the color rose in his cheeks above his beard told her that he was as shocked by his sudden forthrightness as was she. She stared at him, elated and aghast. He meant his praise quite earnestly, she knew, and the thought that he found her beautiful, still, even after all this time, that he would confess such a thing to her even when their circumstances were so uncertain, warmed her heart. Perhaps it would be best, she told herself, if she set aside her worries and fears for the future and simply lingered in this moment with him, alone in her sun-dappled kitchen, warm and safe in the affection they felt for one another. This was their place, a safe place, and she did not want the troubles of the world beyond to infiltrate this sanctuary.

"You look quite handsome yourself, you know," she told him warmly. One of her hands was still pressed to his back, and with all the boldness she could muster she trailed her palm up to his shoulder, curled her fingers against the muscles there and held on tight. There was a look in his eyes, a hunger she knew all too well, a longing that matched the fierce yearning of her own heart.  _We don't have to decide everything right now,_ she thought as she watched his gaze shift from her eyes down to her lips;  _we can just see where the day takes us._

And so when he reached out to cradle her cheek in his palm she did not retreat, and when he bowed his head to kiss her she lifted her chin and met him with all the earnest devotion she carried in her heart, losing herself to the softness of his lips and the heat of his body as he drew her closer to him. Perhaps this moment, this tender, hopeful kiss, was the first step on the journey towards reconciling their needs and their wants, or perhaps it was no more than an act of desperation, but Jean was too lost in Lucien to care.


	35. Chapter 35

_9 November 1946_

Lucien smiled sheepishly at Jean, Li hanging off of one hand and a battered looking toolbox dangling from the other. He meant well, she knew; he felt guilty for not coming around more, not making good on his promises to assist with work around the farm, and, as always, he seemed earnest enough about wanting to spend time with her family. He meant well, but he was usually more hindrance than help, especially today, when he'd brought her two more mouths to feed and an ancient toolbox that did not contain a single thing she needed or did not already possess. Still, though, when he looked at her like that, blue eyes bright and shining and hopeful as a schoolboy, she could hardly bring herself to scold him. It had been two weeks since he'd kissed her so sweetly in the kitchen, since they'd stood together for a time watching their children playing so joyfully, since Jean had finally begun to allow herself to consider the possibility of accepting whatever proposal Lucien had made - or had attempted to make - the night he first brought Li to meet her. Two weeks of working as spring gave way to summer heat, with crops to plant and tend and new cattle to settle and a fence to mend. Two weeks, and she'd only seen him once, the previous Sunday when he and Li had come round for tea again. At the time Jean had confessed that she wanted to finally patch up the sagging roof, and now here Lucien stood in his fine new trousers and shiny shoes with his hair neatly combed and styled, offering to help her no matter how foolish such a suggestion might have been.

"Major Blake reporting for duty," he said winsomely, and Jean found that despite the grumblings of her pragmatic nature the warmth of his smile filled her full of joy. It was so good to see him, to know that she could depend upon him, to know that she had a friend in him, whatever else they were - or might one day be - to one another.

"You may regret this before we're finished, Lucien," she told him, her smile taking the sting out of her warning.

"I doubt that somehow," he answered. Li had already taken off running to join the children in the back garden, and Lucien and Jean lingered for a moment there on the drive, enjoying a rare instance of solitude. Their lives were so full of people, of responsibilities, that it often to seemed to Jean as if they never had a chance to speak to one another openly. She wanted that opportunity, wanted to unburden herself to him, to tell him of her reasons for being hesitant to leave the farm, tell him of her guilt at the thought of casting side Christopher's memory in order to build a future with Lucien, to tell him about Lily and the gossip she'd endured and all her fears. There was so very much to say, and of course she could not speak a word of it while the children were underfoot. Perhaps this would have been a good moment to take him inside and pour a cup of tea and give herself over to such vulnerability, but he looked so very happy, and the sun was bright and warm, and the roof really did need looking after.

"Are you sure we can manage this on our own?" he asked her, eyeing the roof with some trepidation.

Jean just laughed. He was not the first man she would have chosen to assist with a home repair, but he took instruction well, and she wanted to spend the time with him.

"We'll be just fine," she assured him. "And thank you," she added, reaching impulsively to rest her hand against his forearm.

"I'm happy to do it," he told her sincerely. "I haven't seen enough of you lately, Jean."

She tried not to balk at the implication of his words. There was nothing untoward in them, and he was not leering at her, was not consciously harkening back to their night in the barn, but Jean  _was._ For all that she tried to be good, to do the right thing, to resist temptation, to put her children's needs first, she had spent more time than she cared to admit thinking of how... _right_  it had felt to be nestled in his embrace. There were still nights when she missed her Christopher, when she wished she could speak to him, could hear his gentle counsel, could watch him with their children. It wasn't as if Lucien had replaced him in her mind, for nothing and no one, not even a man as good and kind and strong as Lucien, could ever dispel the memory of the man who'd shared her bed and her life for so many years. They were very different men, and they treated her differently; Christopher had known how strong she could be, had leaned on her, had relied upon her practicality, while Lucien treated her more gently, encouraged her to wildness, made her laugh, made her feel precious. Christopher was the sturdy ground beneath her feet, and Lucien was the reckless promise of a dream. If she were to turn aside from the farm, to accept Lucien's hand and follow where he led, it would be to a life so very different from her own she could hardly imagine it.

Which is not to say that she hadn't tried, that she hadn't nestled beneath her bedsheets thinking of his father's fine house, thinking of installing the children there, watching them frolic in the well-landscaped garden, making meals in that kitchen so much more pristine than her own, sitting down at the table all of them together. She had thought of Lucien calling Li and Lily  _my girls,_ had thought of what it mean, how it might feel, to make those words a reality. She had thought of the security being a doctor's wife might bring her, had thought of trips abroad, when the children were older, had thought of long nights sitting beside the fire in the parlor, and she had nearly wept, she longed for that life so badly. It seemed too beautiful to be real, a blessing she could never hope to claim. Jean Mary Beazley had lived her life in the dirt, proudly, had worked hard, had persevered, and though there was beauty in the thought of being Lucien's life, there was a piece of her that could not help but feel as if she would be no more than an imposter in that place. Was the day coming, she wondered, when Lucien would realize that she was not all he had thought her to be, that she was not cut out to be part of his world?

"Come with me," she said, turning on her heel, her old workboots kicking up dust as she made her way around to the side of the house and the offending stretch of roof. With help from her new hired hand and a few boys on loan from Mark Dempster the rotting rafters had been replaced and all that remained was to nail down the shingles. It would be hard, hot work, but she hoped that with Lucien by her side the time would pass quickly.

"Do you have a hammer in there?" she asked him, raising one eyebrow at him as she gestured archly towards his toolbox.

"I'll have you know, Mrs. Beazely," he answered, leaning towards her with a heat in his gaze and a growl to his voice that made her shiver. "I have two."

"Silly boy," she chided him. "Bring one of them with you." Mark Dempster's boys had been kind enough to haul the heavy shingles up to the roof for her - for in truth, she had been half convinced Lucien wouldn't come at all - before they were called back to work. Truth be known she was grateful to them for it, for while Lucien was strong enough on his own she wasn't entirely certain how comfortable he would be navigating the ladder with a heavy load. He had only been a farmhand for a season, and he still had much to learn.

"Bring it where?" he asked with some trepidation, watching as she retrieved her own tools and stepped up on to the ladder.

* * *

The work passed quickly enough; her farmhand and Mark Dempster's boys had done the lion's share of the work, and she and Lucien managed to tidy up the last of it in record time. Which was a blessing, given the heat of the day and the fact that every time Lucien stood up Jean was convinced he was about to tumble from the roof. They descended the ladder perhaps an hour after they'd begun, the pair of them dripping sweat. Lucien reached the ground first, and as Jean picked her way down she felt Lucien's eyes on her, and quite suddenly she realized how foolish she had been to attempt such a thing while wearing a skirt. She did have trousers for heavy work around the farm, but she had not worn them today, and if vanity had played some role in her decision she tried not to think too hard about that now. With one or two more rungs to go Lucien reached out to steady her with his hand upon her hip, that broad, strong hand sliding over the curve of her waist to settle at the small of her back. His touch did little to ground her, for in truth the moment she felt the brush of his palm through the thin, sweat-soaked material of her blouse her knees went weak and her heart began to race.

She shouldn't want him so badly, she knew, shouldn't give in to the selfish desires that had nearly ruined her years before. And yet, she could not seem to stop it, could not quell the longing she felt for him, could not help but hope that he would reach out and take her into his arms once more. There were so many questions, so many doubts, so many fears roiling inside her, a mighty tempest of uncertainty, and though Lucien was the cause of all of them it also seemed to her that he was the only one who could possibly hope to quiet that storm. Her feet touched the ground and his hand traced a path to her other hip, his arm looping around her waist, drawing her close to him. Not too close, of course, for they were both of them sweaty and hot and tired, but close enough for her to feel the warm wash of his breath upon her cheek as he leaned towards her. For a moment she thought he meant to kiss her, but he did no such thing, simply pressed his forehead to hers and lingered there, his lips no more than an inch from her own.

"Lucien," she breathed, feeling somewhat faint, though whether that was from the heat or his proximity she could not say.

He did not answer her right away, choosing instead to simply hold her, the tension in his muscles speaking more eloquently of his own fervent need than any words could ever hope to do. He was waiting for her, she knew, waiting for her to accept him or to scorn him, to tell him what it was she wanted from him. The problem, of course, was that Jean did not  _know;_ she wanted Lucien in her life, in her arms, in her bed, always, but she was so very frightened of the consequences that she could not bring herself to speak such a thought aloud.

"You're lovely, Jean," he whispered. The sun was high overhead and the birds wheeled against a sky as impossibly blue as Lucien's eyes, but it seemed to Jean as if everything else in the world had faded, as if all that remained was just him, just her, just this swirling, rising torrent of need. "Is there anything you can't do?"

 _Solve my own problems, forgive myself, love you freely as I should have done every moment of the last twelve years,_ she thought sadly, but he did not give her a chance to respond, for once again he was speaking to her softly, in a voice thick with want.

"You are beautiful," he told her, pressing a gentle kiss to the corner of her lips. "You are good, and you are kind, and you mend everything broken thing, just as you mended me. You have knit me back together, Jean. You-"

"Papa!" a little voice cried, and they sprang apart like startled rabbits, Jean blushing furiously and cursing her ill luck.

* * *

It had been in his mind to press her for an answer, to tell her how fervently he loved her, how very much he wanted them to build a life together, but the words had not passed his lips for Li had come racing round the corner of the house calling his name and he was forced to set aside his own selfish wants in favor of resuming his duties as her father. Lily and the rest of the children were close behind her, grinning brightly at him, so full of life and joy that he knew they must not have seen him embracing Jean.  _I must be thankful for small mercies,_ he thought ruefully.

"Are you finished, Papa?" Li asked excitedly. Every day she grew brighter, happier, more confident, and though he cursed this interruption he could not deny that he adored his little girl, loved her with everything he had, and he was so terribly grateful to have her in his life once more.

"I am, my darling," he answered, catching her in his arms and spinning her in a circle, delighting in the tinkling sound of her laughter and the softness of Jean's smile as she watched them together.

"Will you play with us Lucien?" Lily demanded. "Christopher doesn't want to play any more. Jack and Li can be a team and you can be on my team."

"Please, Papa, please," Li implored him, still hanging off him and grinning brightly, grass stains on her new yellow dress and a shine to her eyes that filled his heart with gladness.

"I'm terribly sorry, Mrs. Beazley," he said, turning to Jean, "but it seems my girls have need of me."

Jean looked at him and his breath caught in his throat; he had not asked her, had tried very hard not to think about the fact that Lily might be his child, but every now and then he saw an expression on her face like the one that graced her features now, and he nearly burst with the desire to know for sure. Jean guarded the secrets of her heart so fiercely, but he knew her so well, every piece of her, every expression, every gesture, and in that moment he could not help but wonder if he had found his answer in her gaze. He wanted it, wanted to claim Lily for his own, wanted to join their shattered little families into one, whole and well, but he dared not press Jean, not now, not yet, not when he was still uncertain what it was she wanted from him. And then the spell was broken as she waved her hand dismissively and offered a half-hearted smile. "Far be it from me to stop you," she said. "Go, have fun. I'll see about supper."

And so Lucien left her, Lily and Li and Jack tugging on his clothes and laughing.  _Another time,_ he told himself.  _There will be another chance. She hasn't given up on me yet._


	36. Chapter 36

_9 November 1946_

Lucien sat very still in an armchair by the fireplace - though there was no fire in the grate, given the oncoming summer - staring into a glass of his father's scotch while the old man puttered around in the kitchen, the steady  _tap tap tap_ of his cane upon the floor echoing through Lucien's mind like the gunfire in Singapore, disturbing his already adled thoughts. The sense of waiting hung heavy upon him, as if he had been trapped beneath a sheet of ice, slowly melting in the warmth of spring but not quickly enough for his liking. He had come so  _close,_ earlier in the day, so damnably close to finally breaking through the barriers Jean had thrown up between them, had seen the warmth and the want in her shining eyes, had felt the way she softened in his grip, swayed towards him, tantalized him with the offer of everything he had ever wanted. It might have -  _should have -_ been their moment, then, sweaty and delighted in the warmth of a sunny afternoon, but they had been interrupted by the untimely arrival of their children. Not that Lucien bore any of the little ones any ill will; those four children were the light of his life, the source of his delight, and he could not begrudge them their frivolity, their earnest fondness of him. Likewise, however, he could not deny that so long as they were underfoot he and Jean seemed to be making no progress whatsoever, and the longer he went without her by his side the more ravenous and distressed he became.

He should have been happy, he should have been content. Lucien had begun seeing patients in his father's surgery, and much to his chagrin had discovered that tending to the mundane complaints of his neighbors suited him just fine. Every day brought something new, but it was never catastrophic, never tense and heavy and dire as his previous posting with the Army. He was not performing surgery, here, was simply listening to his neighbors' complaints and doing his best to help them, and he found that they were, for the most part, a kind-hearted bunch. They made him laugh, made him smile, helped him get through the day. And his work as police surgeon brought with it all the challenges that his life as a country doctor lacked, the occasional suspicious death in town giving him the chance to immerse himself in a riddle. Yes, he was happy in his work, and he took joy in his child, he had mended his relationship with his father and he had money to spare. He should have been happy, and yet he was not, for despite all the good in his life Jean remained distant from him, and he could hardly bear their separation.

The glum churning of his mind was interrupted as his father made his way to the sitting room, scotch in one hand and cane in the other, a strange, rueful little smile tugging up the corners of his lips. As Lucien watched he settled into the corner of the sofa where a book was waiting for him, arranging limbs and drink and cane until he seemed quite comfortable. Thomas made some show of sighing contentedly, and then turned his gaze out the window.

"Nice night for it," he said, inexplicably.

Lucien stared at him, perplexed.  _For what?_ He wondered.

"Warm," Thomas continued. "And it's early yet."

This one-sided conversation was growing stranger by the second. The night was still young; it was just gone eight o'clock, and Li was already asleep, and the next day was Sunday, with no patients to visit, no cases to solve, just a whole cursed day to spend wallowing in his own unpleasant thoughts.

"Li's sleeping soundly," Thomas observed slyly, and all at once Lucien realized exactly what it was his father was suggesting. He stared at the old man, shocked and somehow awed by just how much Thomas had changed over the years. His father had been a hard man, a proud man in his youth, but losing his only son, fearing him dead for a time, suffering the long silence of their estrangement had given him a taste of humility and firmly rearranged his priorities. He laughed, now, as Lucien had not seen him do since his beloved Genevieve had died. Thomas delighted in spending time with his granddaughter, in making her smile, and had settled into a blissful state of semi-retirement, puttering around the sunroom and reading old books and looking at Lucien, every now and then, with sorrow in his gaze. There was no sorrow in him now, however, for the old man was doing his very best to encourage his son to recklessness, giving Lucien an opportunity to reach out and take hold of the dearest longing of his heart.

"That she is," Lucien said slowly, his thoughts racing.

"I've left the keys to the car on the table," Thomas said nonchalantly, lifting up his book and hiding his gaze from his son. "I could listen out for her, if you wanted to take a drive. Enjoy this lovely night."

Lucien wanted to laugh, but his heart was pounding so hard he could hardly spare the breath. Perhaps his father was right. It was a fine night, warm and clear, the children were asleep, and the world seemed full of possibility. If he and Jean could not find the time, during the daylight hours, to speak openly to one another without the children underfoot, perhaps it had fallen to Lucien to  _make_  the time.

Drawing in a deep breath he downed the last of his scotch in one go, and rose to his feet.

"I think I will," he said firmly, and when he saw the fond smile that flashed across his father's face, he could not help but grin.

"I won't wait up," Thomas said, and with those words Lucien left him, tearing from the room. He scooped up the car keys on his way through the kitchen and burst out into the night with a heart full of hope. He had promised Jean time, and he had given it to her, but he could not bear to linger a moment longer in this dreadful indecision. He would go to her, his dearest love, with his heart in his hand, and he would pray for her mercy. It was, after all, a nice night for it. The perfect night.

* * *

Jean was lying in her bed, the window flung open to let in a bit of the breeze, a book open on her lap, though in truth she was not even trying to read it. Try though she might to direct her thoughts elsewhere she found herself haunted by the moment she'd shared with Lucien that afternoon, the warmth of his hands, the fire in his eyes, the ferocious desire in his voice when he told her lowly, earnestly, how he cared for her. There were so many things she'd wanted to say to him, so many burdens she wanted to lay at his feet, and yet, as always, there simply had not been enough time, no time for her to tell him of her grief, her doubts, her hopes. It had been in her mind to invite him round for tea after church on Sunday, but he and Li had not stayed for supper, and she had been so disconcerted by the whole thing that the invitation had never passed her lips. Another opportunity lost, another moment's bliss she'd denied herself.

The warmth of the night wrapped around her like a blanket, stifling and quiet despite the gentle breeze ruffling her lacy curtains. Her treacherous thoughts had given way to an ache deep in her belly, a vast, yawning chasm of want and loneliness that she knew only Lucien could fill. Life on the farm was not the same, without him there beside her; the work brought her no joy, in the absence of his smile, his laugh, his warm voice. The children asked after him constantly, missing his steady presence, and every time they did she found herself wondering if she was doing the right thing, keeping this distance between them. She had asked him for time, and he had given it to her, but the days did not bring her clarity. Only his presence did that, and he was absent far too often.

In the darkness of her bedroom she sighed, and placed her book upon the sidetable. She could not read a single word, but perhaps if she turned out the light, she thought, she might find some peace, might slowly slip into dreams.

Sleep was not in the cards, however, for as she reached for the lamp a hoarse voice came drifting in through her window, whispering  _Jean._

The sound of it had her sitting bolt upright in a moment, her heart racing, fear suddenly gripping her like a vice. She was all alone on this remote farmstead, with three children to look after, and Christopher's gun was hidden in the back of her wardrobe, too far away for her to reach it easily. If some terror had come for her, some danger slipping up through the darkness, she was ill prepared to deal with it, but her fear gave way to exhilaration when once more she heard him whisper  _Jean,_ and realized who it was standing outside her bedroom window.

"Lucien?" she whispered back, sliding out of bed and crossing to the window at once. To her delight - and her utter confusion - she found him standing there on the other side of the window, his face hovering above her own, his expression unreadable in the darkness. "What on earth are you doing?"

"I need to speak to you," he told her in that same fervent whisper, "but I didn't want to wake the children. May I come in?"

There was something decidedly juvenile about this, Jean sneaking a man into her home through her bedroom window under cover of darkness, but she knew that he had done the right thing in coming to her this way; if he had knocked upon the door he would have woken the whole house, and any chance for privacy or open discussion they might have had would have vanished at once. The floorboards that lined the sitting room and corridor were old and creaky, and even if he had somehow managed to pass over the threshold without alerting suspicion, he would not have been able to take a single step without setting up a chorus of groans. This was the only way, and so despite feeling rather foolish Jean simply nodded and stepped aside, gesturing for him to join her.

Rather awkwardly he came clambering through in a tangle of arms and legs; she reached out to steady him, her hands on his broad chest, and in a moment he was there, standing before her, the racing of his heart undeniable beneath her palm. She stared up at him, at the warmth of his blue eyes, the fullness of his lips, the neat line of his beard, and felt her heart answering the call of his own. Earlier in the day he had looked at her hungrily and held her close and she had nearly given in to her desire for him, before responsibilities and propriety stayed her hand. There were no distractions, now, no work to be done, no children to look after, no pretense to separate her from him. They simply were, for the first time in a long time, two lonely people who cared for one another, sharing the same air, the same space, longing for the same things and yet utterly unsure how to achieve their desires.

"Hello," he whispered gently, and she could not help but smile at him, could not help the way she blushed beneath his frank stare, could not bring herself to pull her hands away from his chest. It seemed to her as if he were waiting for something, as if in the stillness of this moment he was gathering himself and his thoughts, marshalling all his arguments, and she realized with a sudden rush of clarity that she did not wish to hear whatever words he might choose to try and convince her to accept him. She  _wanted_ him, and somewhere deep inside her heart, she knew she had accepted him long ago. They needed to talk, yes, needed to decide how they might best go about joining their lives together, needed to talk about Lily, but he did not need to persuade her. She was his, body and soul, and she would not be happy until they were together, properly, the way they longed to be. There would be time enough later, she told herself as ever so slowly her hands drifted up along the plane of his chest and over his shoulders to curl around the back of his neck. Right now, in this moment, the problems that faced them paled into insignificance. He had told her that he loved her, had come back to her when he could have just as easily set her aside, had offered her all of himself, and she knew that the time had come for her to tell him the truth of her heart.

"I'm glad you're here," she said, swaying closer to him as his arms snaked around her waist, his expression both hopeful and pleased. "There's something I need to tell you." She hesitated for a moment, feeling keenly the gravity of the situation, all the potential for disaster and ecstasy that came with having him here so late at night, that came with the unleashing of her wild and willful heart.

"I'm all yours, Jean," he whispered back, and the earnest sincerity of those words gave her the courage to speak.

"I love you," she said simply. He had spoken those words to her at least half a dozen times, that night he'd taken her back to the barn and again when he'd returned from Shanghai, but she had never once returned the sentiment, had never told him outright how she cared for him, how much he meant to her. He deserved to hear it, she knew, no matter how difficult it may be for her to expose her vulnerabilities so plainly, to give voice to her complicated emotions. The effect her proclamation had on him was quiet but no less profound, for his whole being seemed to soften, his eyes and his lips and the arms wrapped around her body, as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. "I don't know how we'll manage," she continued, "but I love you, Lucien Blake, with everything I have, and if you'll have me-"

Before she could finish that thought he had flashed a wild, delighted grin and the next thing she knew his lips were crashing into hers, one of his hands tangling in her hair while the other pressed to the small of her back, hauled her hard against him. A little gasp escaped her, as his ardent affections caught her by surprise, but then she melted in his arms, pouring all of herself into this sweet kiss, the tips of her fingers caressing the back of his neck while she lifted herself up onto her toes, pressed closer to him, sought out his warmth, the taste of him, the solid strength of his body. No, she did not know what might happen next, but she knew that whatever it was they would face it together. They would talk, and they would make their plans, and they would build a life together, as they always should have done. Neither of them would ever regret the families they had made, the spouses they had both cared for so deeply, would never forget the pasts that had forged them into the people they were on this night, but they would move forward, together, in grace and desperate love.

* * *

The sweetness of the kiss began to fade, beneath the hunger of their long separation. It was more than two months since the night he'd taken her in the barn, and the desire that she had woken in him on that night came roaring back with a vengeance. Having been given a taste of her, the softness of her body, the beautiful way she held him, he could not hold himself back. Perhaps it would be presumptuous of him, to ask her for such a gift a second time when he had not properly proposed to her and they had not really discussed their future, but as she kissed him he felt her own fervent need answering his own, and he began to suspect that she didn't much care whether or not it was presumptuous. There was nothing chaste about the eager way she pressed her hips against him, despite the fact that she could no doubt feel the evidence of his desire as thoughts of having her naked beneath his hands again overtook his rational mind.

He wanted, very much, to lay her down atop her crumpled sheets, to stretch her out beneath him and take his time with her, re-discovering every inch of her body. He had never, not once, made love to her in a proper bed, as the short-lived affair they'd conducted in their youth had, of necessity, taken place almost entirely in the backseat of his father's car, far from the prying eyes of their families and the pallet in the barn hardly counted. He took a single step forward, intent on reaching the bed, and she moved with him, graceful and clinging to him and more than willing, it seemed, to follow where he led, but a dark thought drew him up short. That bed, with its finely carved wooden headboard and its faded white coverlet, was not just Jean's bed. It was the bed she had shared with her husband, that man who had lost his life while Lucien stood by powerless to stop it, that man whose name she had taken, whose sons she had borne. And though Christopher Beazley had been dead for four long years, Lucien could not help but feel as if making love to Jean in Christopher's bed would be a dreadful sort of betrayal, especially when he could not even be bothered to wait until he'd put a ring upon her finger. No, the bed would have to wait, he thought, until Jean was properly his wife, until he could assure Christopher's ghost that his intentions were good, that he would do everything he could to nurture and protect the family Christopher had left behind.

He was spared the agony of explaining any of this to Jean, however, when she tore her lips from his own and gazed up at him, gasping and blushing.

"Wait," she whispered breathlessly.

Hs heart sank; perhaps she had decided that they could ill afford to repeat the mistakes of their past. Much as he might regret missing this opportunity now he would respect her wishes in all things, and so he dutifully began to withdraw from her, but she stopped him with her blood-red nails biting into the back of his neck.

"No," she said quickly, and he was so relieved it almost shamed him, "I want you, Lucien. It's just...the bed squeaks. We'll have to be-"

Before she could tell him to be quiet he was already jumping into action. He kissed her again, hard, and with his hands clenched tight around her hips he spun them around and took three steps forward, grinning into the kiss when Jean's back met the support of the wall by the window and a little gasp escaped her. Yes, this would suit his purposes just fine, would sate his most urgent need, would solidify their commitment to one another, would appease his somewhat twisted sense of morality where the bed was concerned and all with the added bonus of keeping the noise to a minimum.

Having realized what it was he intended Jean caught his bottom lip between her teeth, and their desires were unleashed in earnest. Trading fervent, nipping kisses and ragged, panting breaths they fell upon one another, her nimble fingers attacking his shirt buttons, his broad hands catching the soft material of her nightdress and lifting it up over her head in a moment. He groaned, quietly, at the sight of her smooth, pale skin, but before he could lower his head and begin to feast upon her she pushed him back, one eyebrow arched and her fingertips curling around the waistband of his trousers. Lucien was certain that he had never, in all his life, seen anything as provocative as a Jean, naked and utterly glorious, looking at him that way, telling him with the heat of her eyes to take off his trousers and join her in delirium. He was all too happy to comply.

The moment his trousers touched the floor she reached for him, gentle hands intent upon his hardness, but he brushed them aside in favor of sliding his own hands beneath her thighs, lifting her up, holding her in place between his chest and the wall. She was panting, eyes alight with mischief, and he could feel her already torturously hot as she wrapped her legs around his waist and ground her center against his lower belly. She was beautiful like this, every line and curve of her face close enough for him to brush her skin with his lips, and so he did, pressing gentle kisses to the rise of her cheek, the corners of her eyes, the edge of her mouth, the line of her chin. His broad hands, calloused now by hard work, dragged along the smooth skin of her thighs to clench hard around her bum, pressing her that much closer to him, drawing a sigh of contentment from them both. All the worries, all the fears, all the doubts, all the hesitation they had carried between them for the last year faded into nothingness in that moment, drowned beneath the waves of their love for one another.

"I love you," she whispered again, one hand wrapped around his neck, the other winding softly through his hair as she held him close. "I love you."

He had waited twelve years to hear her say those words, to know, for a certainty, that she felt as strongly for him as he did for her, to know that they were united in this life, that she would be by his side. The time would come, and soon, when he would ask her to be his wife as he had tried to do before, and now that he knew without a doubt that she would accept him, he found he had never in his life been happier than he was in that moment. There were not words for this, this swirling joy, this towering need, this sense of completeness, and so for the first time in his life Lucein chose not to speak. They would speak later, he told himself, and so in that moment he only lowered his head, and kissed her deeply, his tongue seeking out the secrets of her mouth, her arms tightening their grip on him, as if she meant what she had told him once, that she would never let him go.

Desperation and anticipation made them reckless, and their kiss grew sloppy as they struggled for breath, as Lucien shifted his grip so that he was holding her up with one hand while the other slipped over her bum to trace gentle patterns against her soft folds, testing her wetness and finding her so eager for him that he nearly growled. She gasped, soft and sweet and ready, as he dipped one finger inside her, and what little remained of his restraint left him. He would gladly spend the rest of his lifetime loving her in every way, with everything he had, but right now, tonight, he could not wait another moment longer.

Neither could she, it seemed, for when he drew his hips back she reached between them and curled her fingers around his shaft, throbbing with want of her, and caressed him fervently, drew him closer to her. Delicate teeth found the lobe of his ear and nipped him once, not unpleasantly.

" _Now, Lucien,"_  she told him urgently, and he reacted at once, his hips surging towards her, his hands drawing her down onto him, a groan escaping them both as he thrust into her. Hot as fire and dripping with need of him her sex contracted around him, and he pounded into her, hard and unrelenting and perishing with want of her. She would be bruised tomorrow, and his back would sting next time he bathed from the scratches her nails etched into his skin, but he did not - could not - spare a moment to care, not when her lips pressed tight to the thick muscles of his neck to silence the sound of her pleasure and her breasts heaved against his chest soft and glorious and her wet heat drew him in, deeper and deeper.

His hips and hands worked in tandem, drawing her down as he thrust up, her back connecting with the wall again and again, and each time he surged within her a song like the chorus of angels filled his mind. His cock throbbed, heavy and hard and insatiable, and her walls fluttered around him, and when he ducked his head to drag his tongue along the sweat-slicked skin of her throat she whimpered, as lost in bliss as he. The need was building in him, tightening his muscles, urging him to a frenzied pace, and the way Jean gave herself over to him so fully, wanton and wild in his arms, told him they were both moments away from tumbling off the precipice.

" _So good,_ " Jean gasped, and if he could have spared the breath he would have agreed with her. They were  _good,_ they were  _right,_ they were so perfectly matched, so transcendent in their desire for one another. He had never, in his life, wanted anything so much as he wanted her.

"Oh,  _god,"_ another desperate little whimper escaped her. She kept her voice low, and he prayed it would not carry to where her children slept, but he could not bring himself to admonish her, for he loved the sounds she made, the way she whispered to him, begged for him. Still he pounded into her, beads of sweat rolling down his back, his whole body focused on Jean and the way she clutched at him, trembled, shook with her abandon. He hoped that she was close, for he could not stave off his own release much longer.

"Please, Lucien, please," she pleaded with him, and so he shifted, leaned one hand against the wall and changed the angle between them, ground himself against her tender heat as he thrust even harder, sharply, delving into her as deeply as he could. He did it again, and again, and on the third time she broke, her teeth sinking into his shoulder as her legs clamped tight around his hips, as her soft heat fluttered around his fevered length, as the soft wet sounds of their union and the warmth of her skin undid him utterly. He buried his face in her hair and bit his own bottom lip to keep from groaning as he spilled into her, unable to deny the siren song of her body a moment longer.

Bliss, everything was bliss, and Jean, and beauty in that moment.

* * *

"This wasn't exactly what I had in mind when I came here, you know," he told her softly.

They had straightened themselves out; as soon as his legs were steady Lucien had carried her to bed, had tenderly cleaned her up, had nuzzled against her neck and breasts and kissed her softly, sweetly, everywhere, the curve of her hip, the rise of her bum, the back of her knee, had blessed every inch of her skin with tender affection until at last he collapsed with his head in her lap and a smile on his lips.

It was a smile Jean returned as she looked down at him now, running her fingers through his unruly blonde curls, thinking how handsome he was, this reckless man of hers, how kind, how thoughtful, how gentle, how strong.

"Well then," she said playfully, "you must be the first man in history to ever sneak through a woman's window in the dead of night with chaste intentions."

He laughed softly, and turned his head to press a tender kiss against the soft skin of her belly.

"I really did want to talk, Jean," he told her.

"I know," she sighed. She did not particularly want to talk, to hash out all the complications of their situation, but she knew that they must, if ever they were to have the life she'd dreamed of, and so she was determined to face all the ugly truths that haunted her.

"We can make this work, my darling," he said. One of his hands was kneading her thigh gently, distractingly, and she tried to focus on the warmth of his touch, and not her own fears. "I know you love the farm," he said slowly, "but there's not really room enough for all of us here. If you wanted, we could build an extension-"

"No," she said, cutting him off at once. The farm was Christopher's dream, not hers. The house was his, the bed was his, the ground was his, every inch. She had loved him, in her own way, had tried her best to keep that dream alive, but the time had come for her to follow her own heart. It would not do, to try to force Lucien into Christopher's shoes, to continue to hack out a meager living in a place so full of memories. The time had come to forge a new path.

"We could live in my father's house," he said. "He actually suggested it. After a fashion."

Jean stared down at him in surprise. Old Doctor Blake had been kind to her, the last time they'd spoken, but she'd never imagined, even for a moment, that the man who had caused their estrangement in the first place would now try so hard to bring them back together. Perhaps he felt he had much to atone for, or perhaps he more selfishly wanted to keep his son close. Whatever his reasons, it was a kind offer, and one Jean knew should be carefully considered, and not dismissed out of hand.

"There's room enough," he continued, closing his eyes as he no doubt pictured what their life would be like, in that fine house. "There's three bedrooms upstairs, and a studio downstairs that could be converted. We could have that room, and the boys could share, and Li and Lily could each have their own room. Only the best, for my girls."

This last he'd added with a playful smile, but Jean's heart had begun to race. He was so sweet, so hopeful, and his plan was a perfect one. She wanted it, wanted their family all together, even old Doctor Blake, under one roof, united and at peace. She wanted that fine house, wanted to make their meals in that kitchen, wanted Lucien like this, warm and happy in her arms, every day. But before she could reach out and seize that dream there was a difficult confession she would have to make, and Lucien had just presented her with the perfect opportunity. Though she was terrified, she took a deep breath, and spoke.

"They are, you know," she told him softly. "Your girls. Both of them."

For a moment he only stared at her, silence thick and heavy as a cloud upon them. Jean did not dare blink, could not tear her gaze away from the soulful depths of his blue eyes, could barely hear over the rush of blood in his veins. Was it enough, she wondered, those simple words, could he discern her meaning? Oh,  _god,_ what must he think of her?

The agony of that silence was brief, however, for Lucien's hand tightened upon her thigh and he kissed her belly again before speaking.

"I know," he said. "I know, my darling."

* * *

It was the truth, and she deserved to hear it. It had been five months since his father had planted that seed of doubt in his mind, five months Lucien had spent watching Lily and her mother and wondering at the truth. Five months of pouring over the rough timeline of Lily's birth his father had sketched in for him, thinking of how reckless he and Jean had been, thinking how she might have saved her reputation by marrying Christopher so quickly. Five months of his affection for Lily - and her brothers - only growing deeper, five months of falling more and more in love with Jean. He knew what it had cost her, to tell him the truth now, how scared she must have been, how long she had harbored this secret in her heart. He was so grateful to her, for finding the courage to tell him the truth, for the beautiful gift that was their daughter, for loving him, still, after everything, and there was no a single piece of him that felt anything but love and joy in that moment.

Tears began to slip down Jean's cheeks, an expression of shock upon her face, and so he hauled himself upright and pulled her into his arms, rearranging them so that she was seated upon his lap, her face buried in his neck as she wept, softly, quietly. His hands traced nonsense patterns along the smooth skin of her back, and in the silence he spoke.

"She's a wonderful little girl," he told her, "and I am so  _proud_ of you, Jean, for raising these children up, almost entirely on your own. You have made a good life for your family, and...please, my darling, look at me."

He found that without her steady gaze it was growing harder to speak, and at his words she raised her head, and in the softness of her grey eyes he found peace.

"You didn't do anything wrong, Jean," he told her firmly. "If I had known-"

"I'm so sorry, Lucien," she whispered brokenly. "I should have told you, I should have-"

"You thought that I was gone," he insisted. "I  _was_ gone. You did what you had to in order to protect our little girl. And I love you for it, Jean."

* * *

His voice was a fierce whisper, soothing every ache in her heart. Somehow, miraculously, he had already guessed the truth, and now that she had spoken it all her previous fears seemed frivolous in the face of his fervent love. Jean gave thanks, in that moment, sent up a silent grateful prayer to God for giving her this man, returning him to her arms, giving them a chance to rebuild their broken little family.

"I love Lily," he told her. "And I love the boys. No less than I love Li. They are our children, all four of them, and we will give them a home, and look after them, and I will love you, every day."

The tears overcame her again as she looked at him, as she reached out to brush the pad of her thumb against his full bottom lip, as words failed her utterly. Christopher had sworn much the same to her once, and he had made good on that promise, had done everything he could for them, and while he was alive their family had been happy and well. Now that Lucien was swearing his devotion, not just to her, but to her children - all three of them, not just the one who was his flesh and blood - she felt nothing but joy, and relief, and love of this man. There was nothing she could say that could adequately capture the overwhelming emotions that swirled within her, and so she did not speak, choosing instead to close the space between them and kiss him breathless. At long last it seemed that all her dreams were coming true.


	37. Chapter 37

_24 December 1946_

Lucien paced round and round the kitchen, his hands wrapped around a warm cup of tea, his thoughts racing. It was early yet; the sun had not risen, the house was all in darkness, and his father and daughter still slept, utterly oblivious to the turmoil that gripped him.

The arrangements had all been made for Lucien's first Christmas back home in Ballarat. Between them Jean and Thomas had shouted down every one of Lucien's objections, had cajoled and insisted and prodded him until he was left with no choice but to agree to attend midnight mass. Dinner first, Jean and her children and Thomas and Lucien and Li all gathered around one table, and then the children would each be permitted to open one present apiece before they ventured off to Sacred Heart. And then they would return to Thomas's house, all of them, to spend the night, and celebrate Christmas together come morning. While Lucien could have happily forgone the jaunt to church he was delighted at the prospect of having all of them under one roof; he would never confess it to Jean, but he looked upon this Christmas Eve as a trial run of sorts, a test to see how well they would fare, all of them together.

Though Jean had at last confessed her love of him, had agreed, in her own way, to join their lives together, Lucien had not yet properly proposed. He wanted her, with everything he had, wanted their family whole and well, wanted to call her  _wife,_ wanted to fall asleep with his arms around her every night, but he firmly believed that Jean deserved more from him than an impulsive, casual proposal. She deserved romance and beauty and joy and love, and with that thought in mind he had done the impossible, and restrained his wild heart for a full month. A month of Sunday lunches and Wednesday dinners and Saturdays spent lounging indolently on the grass in her garden, discreetly holding her hand while their children played together. A month of resigning himself to kisses, when he wanted nothing more than to gather her into his arms and carry her off to the nearest bed. A month of shy smiles, and stuttering pleasantries, a month of anxious joy, as she whispered her love to him softly when he left her in the evenings, as he turned over and over in his mind the words that he would say, when at last he asked her to be his wife, as he had wanted to do since he was twenty-four years old. He was thirty-seven, now, and through with waiting.

Today was the day, he'd decided; Jean loved Christmas, the lights and the food and the joy and the singing, and it had been the Christmas season when they'd first met, when he had quite literally stumbled across her as she left the church following a rehearsal of the Christmas program. The date had been fixed in his mind for a month, but now that it was finally upon him, he found himself beset by nerves. Oh, he knew that she would accept him, however he asked, knew now that she loved him, as he loved her, that they were united in their dreams for their family's future, but still, the worry lingered. He wasn't entirely sure that he deserved someone as good and lovely and kind as Jean, that he deserved a life as gentle and warm as the one they longed for, but now that it seemed everything he wanted was within his reach he could not help but fear it was all about to be snatched away.

Thus ran the course of his thoughts that early morning, until his solitude was shattered by the telltale sound of his father's cane upon the floor.

"Lucien," Thomas said gruffly as he made his way into the kitchen. "It's a bit early for you, isn't it, son?"

Lucien smiled wanly at the old man. Strange, how the winding road of his life had brought him back to this point, this moment so like the one so many years before, when everything had changed. Back then Thomas had been hard and unyielding, and now he was somehow tamed. It was hard to believe, really, that the father who had spurned him, thrown him out for daring to keep company with the wrong sort of girl, was now wholeheartedly encouraging Lucien to pursue that very same woman, to move her and her children into their house, to unite their families forever. Perhaps the winding path of Thomas's life had been just as strange, just as shattering, as Lucien's own.

"Couldn't sleep," he confessed.

Thomas was standing with his back to Lucien, pouring himself a cup of tea, but even so when he spoke Lucien fancied he could almost hear the old man's wry smile.

"No," he said, "I imagine you couldn't."

Thomas had of necessity been brought in on Lucien's plan; it had been Lucien's intention, the first time he decided to ask Jean to marry him, that he would present her with his mother's ring, and he remained firm in his conviction that this would be the proper course. Obtaining the ring required Thomas's assistance, and so Lucien had unburdened himself to his father, who had been only too happy to pass the heirloom over to his son.

 _It was my mother's ring as well, you know,_ Thomas had told him.  _Well, it was her diamond. I had it placed in a new setting for Genevieve. She would have loved Jean, you know. She would have been so proud of you._

Even now, weeks later, just the memory of those words warmed Lucien's heart, eased some of the tension that bound his body on this momentous day. He missed his mother dearly, grieved for the time they had lost, all the opportunities that had been denied them, but he liked to think that his father was right, that his beautiful, brilliant, tempestuous mother would have adored Jean. If there was a heaven, he was certain that Genevieve Blake was there, and he hoped that she was smiling down upon her son today.

"While we're on the subject," Thomas said, taking a seat at the table. "I have something for you."

He reached into the pocket of his dressing gown and pulled out a small, black-velvet covered box, placing it gently on the tabletop.

Lucien's breath caught in his throat, the weight of the moment settling heavily upon him. This was it, he realized, another of those moments when the road branched before him, and he would have to make a choice, and everything he had ever known would change because of it. With trembling hands he reached out and picked up the box, opening it and staring at the little ring nestled inside, the ring that had belonged to his mother, the ring he intended to give to his beloved, the little band of gold and diamonds that would take the shattered pieces of the people he loved most and knit them together into a family, for once and for all.

"All I've ever hoped for," Thomas told him, "is that you would do your best. And that you would find someone to love you regardless of what happened next."

Lucien looked at his father with tears gathering in the corners of his eyes, and slowly reached out, resting his hand on the old man's shoulder, completely at a loss for words.

"And to be honest, son, I think you have," Thomas said.

* * *

"And this one is for your mum, Jack," Lucien said, handing the little boy a small, neatly-wrapped box.

She made a soft sound of protest; they had agreed to let the children open one present each, but no such allowance had been made for the adults. Jack had gone first, of course, tearing through a rather large package to find a new football, courtesy of Lucien. Then Lily had opened hers, containing a new dress she had rushed off to put on at once, insisting that she simply had to wear it to mass that evening. Christopher had received a package of playing cards, and the present Li had chosen turned out to be a book. There was a mound of presents still waiting beneath the tree, all sorts of delights as yet undiscovered, but the children contented themselves with what they had.

Li had curled up on Jean's lap, devouring the pages of her new book, reading so well now that Jean laughed when she thought about it, how like Lucien little Li was, bright and exceptional and eager to learn. While Lucien and his father had folded themselves into the armchairs Jean remained where she was on the sofa, the boys at her feet, Lily beside her, and Li in her arms.

"No, Jean, I insist," Lucien said, smiling. Jack was standing before her, insistently holding out the little package for her to take, and so she gave in as gracefully as she could. When she started to tear the paper, however, Lucien scolded her good-naturedly from across the room.

"Not yet," he told her, and there was a strange, bright glint in his eyes that made her stomach flutter. "You must open it tonight, but you have to save it until after mass."

That was his payback, she supposed, for her having insisted on his attendance at the service. He would tease her, would offer her this gift and then make her wait, wondering for hours what it could possibly be. It was smallish, and solid, as beneath the paper there was a proper box, and not flimsy cardboard. What could it contain? Jewelry, she supposed, though that thought made her heart race.

He had been infuriating, the last few weeks, had been warm and tender and willing to talk about their plans for the future, but he had not yet asked her properly, and her patience was wearing thin. Did he think it wasn't necessary? She wondered as she looked at him now, pressing her cheek against Li's soft dark hair and watching him smiling at her tightly. Did he think that her hurried confession the night he'd appeared like a ghost in her window was sufficient? Perhaps it was old fashioned or sentimental, but Jean would quite like to be asked, properly, and she was determined not to let Christmas pass without pushing the issue.

Unless, of course, the little box she now held clenched in her fist contained within it the answer to all of her questions, the fondest desire of her heart. She wanted it, wanted it so badly she could weep, and now here he was, telling her to wait just a little while longer. And though she knew the waiting would drive her mad, she could not help but think how she loved him, her wild, impossible man.

Whatever the little box contained, whatever surprises this night held in store for her, Jean was certain that this was quite the best Christmas in recent memory. The sitting room was warm and brightly lit, the tree huge and full and decorated with love and tender care by the Blake men, and she had her family, all together, at last. The boys were playing games at her feet and Li had started to read to Lily - who was being very gracious about the whole thing - and Thomas was smiling as he sipped his whiskey in the corner and Lucien was watching her with eyes so full of love her heart nearly burst.

It could not have been more different from the previous Christmas, cold and lonely with no news of Christopher, with hardly enough money for one present apiece for the children, despair weighing so heavily upon her. And though Christopher had not come home to her as she had so desperately prayed, he had - however unknowingly - given her one final gift, had set Lucien's feet upon the road to home, to her. There were a million things she wanted to say to Christopher, a thousand words she had whispered quietly in the darkness, praying he could hear her, though he had long since left the world. She wanted to tell him how she had loved him, how proud she was to have been his wife, how grateful she was to him, for the love he had given her, the home he had built for her, the sanctuary of his arms, the two sons she loved more than her own life. She wanted to tell him that though she loved Lucien with everything she had she would never forget the way Christopher had saved her, sheltered her, provided for her. One man could not replace the other, in her heart or in her life. It was just that her path had carried her onward, towards a new future, and she knew the time had come for her to embrace it.

But not yet; first she would linger in this moment, warm and content in the love of her family, in the dream of all that they could be, in the beauty of what she hoped would be the first of many Christmases spent just like this one.


	38. Chapter 38

_24 December 1946_

"They're asleep," Jean whispered as she came to stand with him in the corridor. It had been a long, lovely evening; much as Lucien disliked church or anything to do with the trappings of organized religion even he had to admit that it had been nice, spending Christmas Eve beneath the stained glass windows of Sacred Heart, the old rituals familiar and somehow comforting, after so many years away. There had been more than a few curious stares as the Beazleys and the Blakes trooped into the sanctuary together, but a stern look from Thomas was sufficient to silence any incredulous whispers, and the ease with which his family slid into place, he and Jean with their four children sitting on the pew between them, more than made up for any momentary discomfort caused by his neighbors' misgivings. Father Morton had delivered the homily in a clear strong voice, and the smell of incense and the old words washed over him, the formulaic responses tripping from his tongue while his ears picked out the soft sound of Jean's voice from amidst the din of the parishioners.

And now it was very late, and they were home, and the children were asleep. Thomas had trudged off to his bed the moment they came through the front door, being unaccustomed to staying up so late, and Lucien and Jean had herded their excited and over-tired little ones up the stairs. There were three bedrooms on the second floor, and so they settled the boys in one and the girls in the other, ostensibly leaving the third available for Jean, though Lucien had designs for this evening that would not require the use of that bed. If she were willing, if he was brave, if he said the words just as he'd planned them, if life were kind.

Lucien had settled the girls into one room while Jean took the boys to the other, and he could still hear the faint sound of her gasp, as she opened the door and saw the set of bunkbeds Lucien had installed there. There were two little dressers and a little desk with a chair, and a little box for their toys, all ready and waiting for the day when the boys moved into that room for good and all. Since the boys already shared a room at home it made sense that they continue to do so here, and so with his father's help Lucien had painted the room and set up the furniture in the hopes that it would become a comfortable place for them, a place they could enjoy, together.

While Jean had been so occupied Lucien had carted the girls off to Li's room, where they would share a bed for the evening. They were whispering quietly to one another when Lucien left them, and the sound of their cheerful voice as they lay curled up beneath the duvet warmed his heart. Though Li was much younger Lily seemed to find her endlessly fascinating, perhaps because her life had up to this point been so very different from Lily's, perhaps because Lily was so eager to finally have another little girl to talk to, to play with, in addition to her brothers. For her part Li seemed equally taken with Lily, who was so much bolder, so much more self-assured, and with each moment she spent in the older girl's company Lucien had watched her growing more confident herself. They did not know, of course, of the ties that bound them, the shared blood that flowed through their veins, and perhaps they never would, but  _Lucien_ knew, knew that they were sisters, both his daughters, his dearest loves, and he rejoiced to see them happy with one another.

But he had closed the door and left them to their own devices, and now he was, at long last, alone with Jean once more. She was smiling at him softly, uncertainly, as they lingered there in the corridor, and his heart began to race as he watched her. Finally, at long last, his moment had come. There would be no more waiting, no more doubt, no more grief, for he planned this night to join his life to hers, fully, completely, irreversibly, forever. He had gone over and over every step of his plan in his mind until he was certain that he would not muck it up, and the time had come, finally, to act.

"Well," Jean said, leaning towards the doorway to the third bedroom and the bed that waited for her there. "Good night, Lucien."

"Wait, Jean," he said, reaching out to catch hold of her hand, lacing their fingers together and giving her a little squeeze. "You still haven't opened your present."

* * *

His eyes were mischievous, and the thought of that gift, of what Lucien had planned for her, left her both anxious and excited. She hadn't forgotten it, not even for a moment, but she did not want to appear over-eager, did not want to get her hopes up too high, only to be crushed when the contents of the box were revealed, and failed to be the one thing she desired most. Disappointment was an old friend of Jean's, and she had learned to handle it, after a fashion, but if she were forced to open that box now, with the house all in darkness with Lucien watching her, she wasn't sure she'd be able to hide her feelings properly. He was pressing the issue, however, and there was no way she could refuse him.

"I left it downstairs," she whispered back, and he grinned at her, bright and wild.

"Perfect," he said mysteriously, but before she could ask him what on earth he was thinking Lucien was leading her down the stairs, and she was left helpless to do anything but follow along in his wake.

The little box was waiting, still wrapped in bright paper, on a side table in the sitting room, and when they reached it Jean scooped it up, intent on settling herself on the sofa to open it, but once again, Lucien brought her up short.

"Not here, my darling," he whispered, and Jean found herself fighting the urge to stomp her foot in frustration. She knew he was not trying to be deliberately infuriating - well, he  _was,_ but she knew his intention was only to heighten her eventual enjoyment when he finally made the big reveal. He did not know, could not have anticipated, how much grief it brought her, as she worried over their future, as she prepared herself to face the truth hidden in that little box. If he meant to propose to her she would let him and then she would kiss him senseless and scold him about this for the rest of their lives, but if he did not...she had no idea what would come next for them, and she hated the uncertainty.

Lucien led her away from the sitting room, to the heavy doors that hid his mother's studio from sight. He took a deep breath, glanced at her strangely, and then cast the doors open, releasing her hand and gesturing for her to step inside.

It was Jean's turn to draw in a deep breath, as she gazed around the room. She had never set foot in this place before and so had not known what to expect, but the sight before her was almost overwhelming. There was a grand fireplace, faced by a soft rug and a leather sofa. There was a dressing table with a fine, clear mirror, and two tall, ornately carved wooden wardrobes. There were broad windows, shielded now by soft white curtains, and paintings that she supposed had to have belonged to Genevieve decorated the walls. What called to her most about that room, however, was the bed that stood sentinel by the back wall; the frame was antique, hand-carved wood, and the dark navy coverlet was soft and inviting. Two small tables, each with their own lamp, were perched on either side. It was clear what Lucien intended for this room, the purpose for which it had been restored, and just the thought of it made Jean's knees weak.

Silent as a ghost he sidled up behind her, wrapping an arm around her waist and bowing his head to whisper in her ear, "I think you should open your present now, Jean."

There was not a doubt in her mind, now, as to what that box contained, and her hands shook, just a little as she carefully peeled off the paper, trying to savor the moment, the warmth of Lucien beside her, the brush of his beard against the tender skin of her cheek, the soaring in her heart as she realized that, at long last, everything she'd ever wanted was finally within reach. She wanted this to last forever, this moment of love, of joy, of light, of hope, and so despite her excitement she tried not to rush. And if a part of her was trying to punish Lucien for the endless waiting he'd subjected her to, she chose not to dwell on that somewhat petty impulse.

At last she could delay no longer, and the paper fluttered silently to the floor. She was left holding a small, black-velvet covered box. Before she could open it, however, Lucien stepped around her, deftly drawing the box from her clutching hands. For a moment he stared at her, eyes huge and blue and hopeful, his chest rising and falling to the rhythm of his staccato breaths, his very being seeming to vibrate with anxiety and anticipation.

"Jean," he said slowly, and in response she could do more than tremble. "This was my mother's ring."

Carefully he opened the box, holding it in such a way that she could see the sparkling diamond band inside. Tears gathered in the corners of her eyes unbidden, but she could not blink, could hardly even breathe as she watched him now.  _I asked you to marry me!_ He had shouted at her months ago above the chorus of the pounding rain, and she realized in that moment that they had made it somehow, finally, had travelled back in time thirteen years to the Christmas season when they'd first met, when they'd first fallen in love, when he had first decided to propose to her. Their feet had trod a long and winding path since then, had carried them through heartbreak and war and calamity, but they were, at long last, right where they'd always wanted to be.

"And I would very much like for you to have it," he continued. Before Jean could speak a word he sank slowly to one knee, and the sight of him kneeling before her, this titan of a man with his broad, strong shoulders and his wild heart taking a position of supplication at her feet, offering all of himself to her, moved her more than words could say.

"I love you, Jean. I have loved you for years, since the moment we first met. Will you…" he lost his breath for a moment, passion and hope and want swirling in his eyes, and the knowledge that he was as overcome as she, as completely bowled over by the emotion of the occasion, made her smile softly and reach out to cradle his cheek in her palm. He pressed against her skin, his eyes closing in bliss for a moment, soothed by her reassurance, and then he found his voice once more.

"Will you marry me, my darling?"

"Silly boy," she murmured, a single tear of joy escaping her to slide unchecked down the curve of his cheek.

"Jean-" he protested at her teasing.

"Of course I will," she said, ending their torment for once and for all.

He grinned, and reached into the box, drawing out the ring before tossing the box carelessly to the side. Jean held out her hand, and he slipped the ring onto her finger, and she marveled, for a moment, at the way it fit her so perfectly. But then he pressed a tender kiss to the back of her hand, and the torrent of longing she had only barely been repressing broke free at last. Her hand slid across his cheek and around to the back of his head, where her fingers tangled in his soft blonde curls. She tugged, gently, and he laughed, and in a moment he was on his feet, and she was in his arms, and he was kissing her like she'd never been kissed before, like the world was ending, like they had finally found their home, here, together.


	39. Chapter 39

_22 March 1947_

Lucien paced the length of the battered old porch, back and forth, again and again, as he waited to see how his beloved would receive this most unexpected visitor.

For three long months he and Jean had made their plans; she had started the process of selling the farm, had begun to box up her family's possessions. Her hands had not been idle, not for a moment, as during the day she worked at laying her old life to rest, and in the evenings her sewing needle spun and darted while she brought her wedding dress to life. Lucien had not seen that dress, of course, had not been allowed so much as a glimpse of it; when he and Li came round in the evenings Jean devoted herself to sewing dresses for the girls instead. Though Lucien was bursting to know what Jean's gown would look like, was perishing with want as he wondered how beautiful, how lovely she would look on that day when she finally became his wife, he had to admit that he was grateful to her for keeping this secret, for preserving that joy, that bliss, for the day they were wed.

He was beginning to rethink the kindness of her plan, however, as he fidgeted and agonized there on the porch. Today was the day, finally, the day when they would be wed, when their families would be joined together, forever, when Jean would take his name and his hand and finally, at long last, they would find peace together. Today was the day, the wedding set for two hours' time, but Lucien had been quite suddenly seized by a desire to talk to his bride-to-be, to hear from her own lips her assurances that this path was one she had chosen freely. He had not been so beset by nerves when he married Mei Lin, but then again, he supposed, he had not been taking quite such a risk, had not loved her with his whole heart, had not had his father and his children and a bright future to worry about. Then, he had been consumed by the certainty of the immediate. Now, the past snatched at him with the bony fingers of a corpse and the future beckoned him with a light so blinding he could not find his way, and what he needed, more than anything, was  _Jean._ He needed her now, this instant, not two hours from now when she walked down the aisle at Sacred Heart and any confession he might make to her would be witnessed by dozens of their closest friends and family. He needed her  _now_ , alone, needed her to be his, wholly and completely.

The trouble was, of course, Jean's insistence that he not see her the day of the wedding. In order to keep her distance from him Jean had barricaded herself in the farmhouse with her sister Eadie and the girls, while Lucien and his father kept the boys in the fine house on Mycroft. Jack and Christopher had been joined by their little cousin Danny, who had proven to be a sweet if somewhat rambunctious boy, and for the most part the boys had been content kicking the football in the garden, while Lucien nervously enjoyed a cup of tea with his father.. They had rehearsed two nights before, where they would meet at the church, what duties the children would perform, where they would stand, how they would smile at one another. Every step of this dance had been prepared already, and yet Lucien in his haste and his fear had thrown the plan clean out the window, had come tearing off to the home that would not be Jean's for much longer in his wedding suit, leaving his father in charge of wrangling three small boys for the afternoon.

Upon arrival he had been greeted by Eadie, a pleasant, somewhat plump girl who had also lost her husband in the war. Though Eadie had been very kind, she had also been firm in her conviction that Lucien needed to leave, and quickly, that he had no business loitering around the farm that day, hoping to catch sight of his bride and in the process ruin all of Jean's perfect plans. He had pled his case to her, however, and in the end, she had relented, and gone off to fetch her sister.

And now, Lucien waited.

As much as ten minutes might have elapsed, between his desperate pleas to Eadie and the arrival of his love, but it felt to him as if any entire lifetime had passed in desperation and doubt, while he waited in purgatory for the light of his beloved to set him free.

The door opened a crack and he spun on his heel, but she did not come through; instead she only called his name, frustrated and scared.

"Lucien?" she said. "What on earth are you doing?"

"I know I'm not supposed to see you, my darling," he said quickly, rushing towards the door. It was open far enough to allow the sound of her gentle voice and a flicker of light to flow out to him, but she was standing in such a way that he could not see her, not the curl of her hair or the curve of her shoulder, and he lamented. "I just...I needed to talk to you, before the service."

"Oh," she said softly ,and that single sound contained within it a world of pain, of misery, of loss. "I see."

"No," he said quickly, reaching out all unthinking to place his palm flat against the door. He did not push it open, did not press, did not rush through eager to hold her, but he wanted, so badly, to touch her. The scratch of the battered wood beneath his palm was as close as he could get to the softness of her skin, and so he drank it in greedily. "I want to marry you, Jean, this very moment. I couldn't be more delighted."

"Oh," she said again, and this time her tone was flustered and confused and more than a little relieved. It was funny, really, how much meaning he could discern just from the melody of her voice, how well he had come to know her, body and soul, inside and out. It was funny, really, that a woman as marvelous as Jean had agreed to bind herself to him, forever. It was funny. It was magical. It was everything to him.

"The thing is, Jean," he said, "I just...I want to be sure that this is what  _you_  what. I mean, of the two of us, you have the most to lose. Are you really ready to leave this house behind? You have so many memories…"

As he spoke he shifted, pressed his forehead against the door and closed his eyes, and so he did not see her hand snake out through the open space between them, though his whole body shuddered when her fingertips found their way to the back of his head, stroking his hair softly.

"The memories are in my heart, Lucien," she told him gently. "Not in this place. A house is just a house. Home is the people we love.  _You_ are my home, Lucien Blake."

"Jeannie," he breathed her name, reverent and enraptured, but she was warming to the topic now.

"My children have been happy here, Lucien, but they will be happy in your father's house. There is a garden where they can play and books for them to read and most importantly, we will be together, all of us. That's all that matters."

"But-" he protested, but her nails scraped lightly against his scalp and he shivered and she pressed her advantage at once.

"I have made my choice, Lucien. I choose you. Every time, I choose you. I choose our family, and our future. But, if it makes you feel any better, I am taking a piece of this farm with me."

"You are?" he mumbled, his face still pressed close to the door, wishing with all his heart that he could see her, that he could hold her.

"Turn around, Lucien," she whispered.

He did as he was bid, for he could deny her nothing. He straightened up and turned away from her, his heart beginning to race as he heard the groaning of the door hinges when she opened it completely. Her delicate arms snaked around his waist, skin pale and glowing against his black waistcoat, and the softness of her body molded to his back, and he shuddered like a racehorse at the starting gate, eager for everything, forced to wait.

"Look, Lucien," she said, and he followed the line of her arm as she lifted her hand and pointed towards a large red plant at the corner of the garden. "Do you see that?"

"What is it?" he asked, staring at the bright leaves, the spread of the plant, wondering what on earth she meant.

"That's my gold-tooth aloe," she told him. "Christopher gave it to me before the war. And I have taken a cutting from it, and planted it at your father's house. Our past will always be with us, Lucien," she whispered, holding him tight once more and pressing a kiss against his shoulder. "I don't want to forget it. But we cannot stay in the past forever. We have a chance now, you and me, for a future, and  _that_ is what I want."

"Jean," he breathed, overcome with emotion, with longing, with want of this woman, who was so much stronger, so much braver, than he could ever hope to be.

"Close your eyes, Lucien," she whispered.

And so he did, and so it was that he was completely shocked when he felt the brush of her lips against his own. He kissed her back, softly, earnestly, hungrily, but then she laughed against his mouth and slipped away from him, and at the sound of the front door closing he opened his eyes, and he smiled. Today was the day. He was going to marry the love of his life, and nothing on earth could make him happier.

* * *

"May I have this dance, Mrs. Blake?" old Doctor Blake asked her grandly, offering her his hand.

Jean smiled at him, quite overcome with joy. She took his hand gladly, and allowed him to lead her out to the dancefloor, her head spinning and her heart singing.

It could not have been a more beautiful day. The autumn sun had shone bright and warm as she went to the church, as she walked demurely down the aisle behind her girls. The dresses had taken her months to sew, and the end result of her hard work was a sight to behold. All three of them wore pale, rose-pink silk, little satin bows at their waists and their tulle underskirts swishing softly as they walked. The dresses all had long, lace sleeves, and Jean's featured soft lace across her décolletage as well. The girls wore flowers in their hair, and Jean had made for herself a long lace veil. She had been thankful for it as she walked, for the illusion of privacy it gave her, as her eyes filled with tears at the sight of Lucien and her boys waiting for her at the altar, dressed in fine black suits. Eadie was waiting for her, too, in the dress that Jean had made for her, and she had given thanks for that as well, for the opportunity this wedding had given her to reconnect with her sister, who had already begun to talk of moving back to Ballarat. It would be a fine thing, to have Eadie and little Danny close by once more, to have all her family in one place.

Lucien had beamed at her, his smile brighter than the sun, and his hands had trembled when he reached out and lifted her veil. He had wanted to kiss her then; she could see that want shimmering in his eyes, but in deference to the priest he had only pressed his lips to the back of her hand, and held on tight.

The service had been beautiful, though Jean had hardly heard a word of it. The rings had been entrusted to young Christopher for safe keeping on this joyous day, and he had taken his duty quite seriously indeed. When the time came for him to hand Lucien's ring to Jean she had not been able to stop herself from reaching down and pressing a tender kiss to the top of his head, and for the first time in a very long while, she had a tentative smile on her eldest son's face. He had taken to Lucien from the very start, despite their very different natures, and Jean delighted in knowing that her children did not resent the choice she had made, in taking Lucien as her husband.

And then the ceremony was through, and Lucien had kissed her, softly, but with so much heat, and she had smiled so widely her cheeks began to ache, though she could not stop it. And then they had all retired here, to the Colonists' Club, to drink, to dance, to nibble on the little cakes Cec Drury provided for them and celebrate this momentous occasion. Of all the people gathered in that room, all the friendly, smiling faces, only three of them knew the truth, knew just how long this particular day had been in the making, all the pain and sacrifice and years of waiting that had led to this point. Only Jean, and Lucien, and Thomas.

Lucien was dancing with Lily, and Jean's eyes fixed on him as she and Thomas slid together; the sight of Lucien smiling down at their daughter brought a lump to Jean's throat, the way it always did. They had decided between them not to tell Lily, not yet, to keep their secret a little while longer. The children were still so young, and their lives had changed so much already, and Lucien had been concerned about how the boys might take it, should they learn of the bond their sister shared with their new step-father, a bond from which they were excluded. Jean shared those reservations, and she loved Lucien for voicing them, for staunchly proclaiming his affection for her sons, and his intent to ensure that they did not feel left out in their own family. The day would come when Lily was old enough, when all the children were old enough, to hear such truth, to learn just how long Lucien and Jean had waited for one another, just how deep their love truly ran. The day would come when they were ready to hear it, but today Jean and Lucien would let them linger in the safety and security of their childhood innocence. Across the room Jack and Li were dancing wildly together, and young Christopher was watching with fondness in his eyes, and Jean was once more overcome, thinking how beautiful was this day, how lucky she and Lucien were, to have found each other at last, to have made a home together.

"Congratulations, Jean," Thomas said as they swayed together slowly. For a man who walked with a cane he made quite a graceful dancer, so long as they did not move too far in any one direction, and Jean beamed at him, proud and relieved at the way he had welcomed her into his home, when so many years before he had been so dead-set against her. "You look beautiful. You look happy."

Jean blushed at his compliment.

"I am happy," she replied softly.

"So is Lucien, you know," Thomas said, and when she looked in his eyes she saw the evidence of his firm conviction. "You have made him so happy, my dear. You and those children. And I must admit, you have made me quite happy, too. I had given up hope, you see. I though Lucien would never come home. I thought I had broken my family beyond all repair. And you, Jean, have put us all back together. I believe I shall be forever in your debt."

Once again Jean felt the sting of tears in the corners of her eyes, though she tried not to let them fall. This day had been one so full of love, of hope, of wild reckless joy, and she had wept more times than she could count, tears of happiness, tears of relief, shocked and awed that somehow, finally, she had been given everything she ever wanted, that for the first time she could recall, disappointment and devastation had not laid ruin to her plans. Now that she was dancing with her new-made father-in-law, hearing him speak so kindly to her, she was moved beyond all words. Her own father had been a hard man, a cruel one, at times, and he had never been so gentle with her. Thomas, on the other hand, had welcomed her with open arms, and while she had known it was good for Lucien to reconnect with his father, that it would be good for the children to form a relationship with their grandfather, she realized quite suddenly that it would be good for her, too, that Thomas could be a comfort to her, that she would quite enjoy living with this man, tending to his fine house and sharing meals together.

"I have something for you," he told her, and as the song drew to a close they swayed to a stop, and he reached into his pocket. "This belonged to my Genevieve," he said, and as she watched in wonder he drew out a fine bracelet made of pearls and diamonds.

"Oh, Doctor Blake," she gasped, and the old man just smiled. Carefully he fastened the bracelet around her wrist, and a tear escaped her as her heart sang.

"Please, call me Thomas," he said. "She would have wanted you to have it. She would have loved you, Jean. As we all do."

There was nothing for it then; as soon as the bracelet was secure Jean threw her arms around the old man's neck, and hugged him tight. Thomas made a soft sound of surprise, but he returned her embrace just as fondly.

"Thank you," she whispered.

* * *

They had danced, they had laughed, they had cried, they had played merry games with their children and exchanged fleeting kisses, and at long last, the evening had drawn to a close. With Eadie's help Thomas had shuffled the children off to bed - once they had received hugs and kisses and kind words from each of their parents - and Lucien and Jean were left alone to enjoy the first night of their new life together in a rented room on the top floor of the Colonists'.

It was a finely appointed room, with a big, grand bed and wide, graceful windows, the carpet plush underfoot and the furnishings all heavy mahogany, but Lucien had eyes only for his new bride. She had been stunning, in that soft, shimmering, pale pink dress she'd made for herself, more lovely than anything sold in any shop. All through this long day she had been beautiful and demure, the very picture of a blissful bride, and every part of him ached with want of her. As the door closed behind them Lucien could not help but think how grateful he was for his wife, for the gift of her love, for every moment of every day that had led him here, to this, to her, to them together, forever.

"Jean," he breathed into the quiet, still somehow awed that after all this time he had found his way home to her, that she had accepted him, that with their children they had made a family. And in her watery smile he saw his own wonder, his own emotion reflected back at him a hundredfold. He took a step toward her and she met him at once, his arms snaking out to wrap around her securely while her own embraced him, one of her hands sliding beneath his jacket to press warm and steady against his back. Her smile was radiant, her grey eyes warm and kind, her dark hair shining against the soft lace of her veil. He wanted nothing more, in that moment, than her, in his arms, returning his love with her own fervent desire. Though in the past they had fallen together so many times, rushed and hungry, tonight he wanted to take his time with her, to unravel her slowly, to trace his love for her across every inch of her soft skin. They had a lifetime together to look forward to, and it would begin here, now, on this night, when they were finally properly alone, and free, finally, to follow their wild hearts, wherever they might lead.

"I love you," he told her softly, reverently, and she reached up, winding one hand around the back of his neck.

"I love you, too," she answered him with a conviction that soothed his battered heart. "I always have, and I always will."

There was nothing for it then but to kiss her, and so he did, and so they began their life together, in peace and radiant love.


	40. Chapter 40

_2 August 1954_

"You're sure you have everything you need?" Jean asked him, smoothing her hand over his shoulder, brushing away some speck of dust only she could see. She was trying, with all her might, not to weep, not to fling her arms around him and beg him to stay. She was trying, so hard, to be brave, to be strong, to keep her chin up and her back straight no matter how her heart was aching. Lucien could see it, even if their children could not, could see how much this parting pained her. Jean loved all her children, but of the lot of them Christopher was the one most like his mother, and Lucien knew that she could hardly bear the thought of losing that boy who was so dear to her own heart. Once, in another life, Jean had stood on this street corner with her children by her side and sent her husband off to war, never to be seen again. The thought of losing her son in the same fashion had resulted in her spending so many nights weeping in her husband's arms, though she did her best not to show her distress to their children. This was Christopher's choice, and Lucien and Jean between them had decided that he must be allowed the freedom to make that choice on his own, despite his parents' misgivings.

"I'm sure," he promised her, carefully catching hold of her hand and lifting it from his shoulder. "Everything will be fine, mum, I promise."

Young Christopher stood tall and proud in his crisp uniform while a light autumn breeze ruffled his soft, dark curls. As Lucien watched him, this young man he had come to think of his own son, he sent up a silent prayer to a god he did not believe in, begging for this boy's safe return home. There was war in Korea, and Lucien remembered all too well what war had cost him, when he himself was a young man rushing off towards his next grand adventure. No matter how many times Lucien had tried to impress upon him just how dangerous, how devastating this path might be, the boy remained firm in his conviction that joining up was the right thing to do. Young Christopher was a studious, serious boy who had politely declined every offer Lucien and his father had made, who sternly refused to continue his studies.  _I've always known,_ he told Lucien late one night,  _that I would be a soldier. Like my father. Like you. It's my turn, Lucien._

And how could he possibly respond to that? How could Lucien tell the boy that he had only joined the Army because he needed a place to sleep and a way to earn enough money to make a life for Jean? How could he tell the boy that his father had only gone to serve because of his stubborn pride and one foolish argument? Their motives in going to war were hardly noble, and yet young Christopher had revered them for their choices, and modeled his path on their own, no matter that his father had lost his life while wearing a soldier's uniform, no matter that Lucien bore the scars of his service in thick, ropey lines that ran from his shoulders to the rise of his buttocks.

"You write to us, every day," Lily said fiercely, stepping up to hug her brother close. She was twenty, now, Lucien and Jean's blue-eyed girl, starting her last year in university and making noises about going off to Europe to study medicine as her father had done. Much as Lucien wanted his daughter here, by his side, where he could protect her and laugh with her every day, he could not begrudge her the chance to spread her wings. She knew now what she had not known as a child, that Lucien was her father, that he had loved her mother far longer than anyone else realized, and she had not hated him for it, had only smiled wryly and said  _I always knew I was too much like you._ And she was. She truly was.

Christopher returned his sister's hug gratefully and gave her his assurances, and the moment they parted Li stepped up to take Lily's place. Sweet Li, who at sixteen was a vision of loveliness, every inch her mother's daughter. Li was nearly finished with school, with her whole life ahead of her, but unlike her big sister she was in no rush to leave home. After the uncertainty of her early years she had grown accustomed to - and grateful for - the stability of her father's house. She had time, yet, to decide where her path might lead, where she might go from here, and Lucien and Jean would love and support her, whatever she chose.

"Stay safe, Chris," she whispered as she hugged her brother. Late one night, after Christopher had made his announcement, Li had come to her father with tears in her eyes. She had seen the horrors of war in a way that her brothers and sisters had not; while Jack and Lily and Christopher had lost their father just as Li had lost her mother, they had not witnessed the death and devastation that had plagued Li in her youth. They had not heard the booming of the guns, the wailing of the widows, did not sometimes wake in the still of the night gripped by the cold terror of a stormy sea and the moans of the dying. Li adored her quiet, sensible brother, and she feared for him, with everything she had.

"I will,  _meimei,"_ Christopher promised her seriously. When they were young and Li was learning English she had taught her brothers and sister some of her own tongue, and Christopher had been the best student of the lot. Between them, Li and Lucien had taught him everything they knew, and he sometimes conversed with his little sister in her native tongue, and Lucien burst with pride for both of them, to see how much they loved one another, how clever and kind they both were.

"Come back and see us sometime, all right?" It was Jack's turn to say goodbye, though he did not embrace his older brother as the girls had done. At fifteen he was a source of constant distress for his mother, sneaking out at night to do God only knew what, causing disruptions in school, hanging about with a terrifying crowd, but he had a good heart, and his siblings looked out for him, and he had so far managed to avoid any life-altering trouble. Though he was not Lucien's son by blood the wildness in him reminded Lucien forcefully of himself as he had been, that young man who had been foolish enough to leave his first love in the family way, who had turned his back on his home and sworn never to return. But Lucien had found his way in life, and he prayed that Jack would do the same. One day.

"As often as I can," Christopher said, shaking his hand. They were mirror images of one another, tall and proud, with the same curly hair and blue-grey eyes, though their natures were so very different. They had shared a bedroom all their lives, Christopher always standing guard to defend his little brother at every turn, and Lucien privately worried for Jack, wondered how he would find his way without Christopher there to guide them. But such was the nature of growing older, he supposed; every man must one day face his life on his own, without the help of the ones who guided him in his youth.

With those goodbyes out of the way Christopher turned once more to his mother, and crouched down so that he was eye level with the youngest member of their family.

"Please don't go," little Benjamin Thomas Blake said morosely, clinging to his mother's hand and staring up at his big brother with pleading eyes.

"It'll be all right, Ben," Christopher promised him, reaching out to ruffle the boy's soft blonde curls. "I'll write all the time, and I'll come home to see you when I can. You be good for mum and dad, yes?"

"I'll try," Ben said sadly, and Christopher just gave him a tender little smile, and hugged him once.

When he straightened up he turned to his grandfather, who reached out to offer him a tightly folded wad of money. "Take care of yourself, young man," Thomas said.

"Granddad-" Christopher tried to politely refuse the money, but Thomas wouldn't hear of it.

"Take it, my boy," he said. "You've got a long journey ahead of you. Get yourself something to eat, and anything else you might need."

Christopher knew better than to press the issue any further when his grandfather used that particular tone of voice, and so he only mumurred  _thanks_ and tucked the money in his pocket before reaching out to shake Thomas's hand.

"You ring us, if you need anything. I still have a few friends in this world. We'll see that you're taken care of."

"Thanks, Granddad," Christopher said again.

And at last, there was no one left for him to speak to save for Lucien, who would not be content with a handshake. Christopher might have been eighteen years old and a man grown, but sometimes when Lucien looked at him he still saw the boy he had been, young and quiet and observant, the one who had woken Lucien early each morning so that they could out and milk the cows together, and Lucien loved him fiercely. He reached out, and drew Christopher into a fond embrace.

"This will be the hardest thing you ever do," Lucien told him as they parted. "But I am so proud of you, Christopher. And I know your father would be, too. I love you, son."

Christopher looked quite overwhelmed by this display of emotion, but he took it in stride, the way he always did.

The bus driver leaned out the door to bellow a warning, and Christopher looked over his shoulder, anxious to get going. He was not the only passenger loitering on the sidewalk, but he was the only who had drawn such a crowd of well-wishers, and he seemed as obviously loath to part with his family as he was eager to start this next phase of his life.

"Well," he said, but before he could finish that thought his mother flung her arms around him for what must have been the tenth time that day. Lucien could not hear the words his wife whispered in her son's ear, but when she finally let him go he could see the sheen of tears in both their eyes.

"I'll write as soon as I can," Christopher promised. "So I guess...goodbye, for now."

Amidst a chorus of good wishes from his family Christopher turned, and made his way to the bus. Li and Lily and Jack stood together, the three of them the best of friends, so used to relying on one another; they quarrelled, as all siblings will, but in moments like this one they stood together, made stronger by their love for one another. Lucien stepped up and wrapped his arm around Jean's waist, and she rested her head against his shoulder, little Ben still clinging to her free hand. Ben had been quite the surprise, when he came along two years after their wedding, and though they worried about how they would manage looking after five children they had both been dreadfully excited about his arrival. Jean loved Li, with all her heart, and Lucien loved her sons as if they were his own, but they had both lamented that they had not been together through Lily's birth, had not been allowed the joy of raising up their own child together from infancy. Lucien had not been able to talk to Jean about names, or feel the fluttering kicks of their child growing in her stomach, or lavish her with love when worries overcame her. Ben had given them the opportunity to finally experience all of those wondrous moments together, and they adored their son just as they loved their older children.

"I don't want to let him go," Jean whispered.

Lucien tightened his grip upon her. "I know, my darling," he answered her softly. So much had changed, over the last seven years. There was grey in Lucien's beard, now, and his father was moving slower with each passing day. The children were growing, making plans for their futures, preparing to start their lives in earnest, and little wrinkles had formed at the corners of Jean's luminous eyes. One thing that had not changed, that would not ever change, was the love Lucien felt for this woman, his complete adoration of her, his innate, unshakeable understanding of her. She was his partner in life, in everything he did, the still point of his madly spinning world, the rock to which he clung in chaos, and there was nothing in his life more beautiful, more radiant than she. She meant everything to him, this woman who had chosen him, with whom he had built this life, and he hated to see her suffering so, whatever the cause.

"He's a good lad," Lucien told her. "You have done everything you could for him. It's time for him to live his life."

Jean sniffled, just a little, and pressed a damp kiss to his cheek, and together they watched and waved and lamented as the bus pulled off and disappeared around the corner.

"Home again," Thomas said, and so their little family finally turned away. Lucien reached down and took Ben in his arms, lifting the boy up so that he could sit upon his father's shoulders as he had done with Jack when he was small. He wrapped one arm around Jean's waist, and smiled when Li reached out and took hold of his hand.

"Yes," he said. "Let's go home."

And so they did, all of them, together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: And so, at last, we've reached the end of the road. I do hope you enjoyed, and I offer my sincerest thanks to all of you who took the time to read and review.


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